The Silent Boy (40 page)

Once again, Savill explained that he had followed the trail of Charles and the man in the blue coat to the outskirts of London but had been able to find no trace of him since then. He did not mention the boathouse in Chiswick and what he had found there. With a glance at Mr Malbourne, he added that the authorities were pursuing the matter.

‘You disappoint me, sir,’ the Count said. ‘I had hoped for news by now. If this were France in the old days, I would have—’

‘Ah – that lost paradise,’ Monsieur Fournier interrupted, turning towards them. ‘France before the Revolution. How desperate we were to remove its blemishes, were we not? But now we would give anything to have it back, blemishes and all.’ He smiled down at Savill on the sofa. ‘You must forgive us if we sound impatient – we are so anxious for intelligence of Charles. Why, we even drove to your house today in the hope of finding you there.’

‘My house?’ Savill stared stupidly at him. ‘I was not aware you know where it is.’

‘Miss Horton recalled you lived in a place called Nightingale Lane near Bedford Square. That was all we needed to know. The coachman did the rest.’

Savill remembered now. Miss Horton had quoted some poem or other when he mentioned the name, and he had been bearish in reply.

‘The shutters were up,’ Mrs West said. ‘And a woman came out of the house nearby and said you were away and asked if she could take a message.’

‘Where have you been staying?’ Fournier said casually.

‘In lodgings,’ Savill said. ‘My sister and my daughter are away, and there was no purpose in opening the house until their return. But I own I’m surprised that you have come to London at all.’

This was too blunt to be polite but Fournier smiled in response as if Savill had said something droll. ‘Because the authorities have a foolish fear we might indulge in seditious activities? You are quite correct. But this is merely a short, private visit as dear Mrs West’s guests. We shall not go to public places and call on our acquaintance. Why, we can hardly be said to be here at all.’

Mrs West laughed. After the mild witticism, Fournier entered into conversation with Miss Horton and Dr Gohlis. The Count began talking to Mr Malbourne, speaking loudly in French and with obvious relish.

‘I had not hoped for the pleasure of seeing you again so soon,’ Savill said to Mrs West. ‘I thought you intended to stay longer in Norbury.’

‘This business with Charles has unsettled us all, and Monsieur Fournier was anxious to come up to town to see his attorney before the weather worsened. All in all, there seemed no reason to delay the visit.’ She smiled at him. ‘Particularly as Harriet wished it.’

He glanced involuntarily at Miss Horton, and caught her looking at Malbourne. ‘Had she a particular reason, ma’am?’

Mrs West raised her eyebrows. ‘If she had, sir, she did not confide it to me.’

Savill heard the arch intonation in her voice and cursed his own stupidity in giving her such an opening. He felt his colour rising and looked away from Miss Horton. He pushed the thought aside and forced his mind to turn to the matter in hand.

Malbourne was already acquainted with the Count. Was Rampton aware of this? If so, why hadn’t he mentioned it? Did Rampton know that Malbourne was here? Surely not, or he wouldn’t have urged Savill to call at Green Street. Was it possible that Malbourne had arranged for Charles to be kidnapped not for his own reasons but to oblige Monsieur de Quillon?

‘You mustn’t waste your time on an old woman like me.’ Mrs West poked him in the ribs with her fan. ‘Go and talk to Harriet. She will want to hear whatever you can tell her about Charles. She is grown very fond of the lad, you know. Curious, isn’t it? The fact he doesn’t speak, I mean. Or won’t speak. It makes him rather like a dog or a baby, doesn’t it? I’ve never had a baby, but one can certainly grow fond of a dog, and I imagine it’s much of a muchness.’

‘He is more than a dog or a baby, ma’am,’ Savill said, his voice sharpening. ‘He is perfectly capable of thought, and of feeling. It’s merely that he’s a prisoner. A prisoner in his own silence.’

She smiled at him. ‘How very poetical, sir. Be sure to tell Harriet that.’

He rose and bowed. His jaw had begun to ache around the empty socket where the tooth had been.

Fournier waved to him to join them. As Savill crossed the room, his eyes met Malbourne’s over the Count’s shoulder. There was no expression in Malbourne’s face.

‘Miss Horton has a message for you, sir,’ Fournier said to Savill. ‘From her father.’ He hooked his hand under Gohlis’s elbow and went on, ‘And now, Doctor – would you be so good as to assist me …?’

Savill was now alone with Miss Horton, who declined to look directly at him.

‘My father begs to be remembered to you,’ she said. ‘He is as anxious for news of Charles as any of us.’ She looked up at him at last. ‘He feels what has happened reflects badly on all of us in Norbury – and particularly on him as Justice of the Peace. Is there really nothing more to tell?’

‘Nothing of any importance. I wish there were.’

She questioned him minutely about his pursuit of Charles and the man in the blue coat, trying to wring every scrap of information from his narrative. She was so probing in her interrogation that he had to work hard to avoid revealing more than he wished.

Then she took him by surprise with another line of questioning.

‘And how is Miss Elizabeth, sir?’

He stared stupidly at her, unsettled by the change of direction and caught off guard by the formality of ‘Miss Elizabeth’. ‘She is very well, thank you,’ he said.

‘She is happy to have you home, I dare say.’

‘In fact no.’ It was a relief not to have to guard his tongue on this subject at least. ‘I haven’t opened up the house. So she is still staying with friends.’

Miss Horton smiled and, in that flash of white teeth, the formality between them dissipated. ‘She would rather be with you?’

‘Yes. She said she desired to act as my housekeeper until my sister returns. Indeed, she had her heart set on it.’

‘That is understandable.’

‘She is staying with her best friend at present,’ Savill said, abandoning all restraint on this subject. ‘The friend is about to be married.’

‘Ah. A mixed pleasure for Miss Elizabeth, perhaps.’

It was his turn to smile. ‘It is sometimes agreeable to be the centre of attention oneself.’

She laughed. ‘You are cynical about the fair sex, sir.’

‘And about my own. To be fair, Lizzie is worried about Charles, too. She takes a great interest in him.’

‘That is natural. He is her brother, after all, and to a girl of her age no doubt the circumstances of his life have an air of romance and mystery about them.’

Savill was ready to take offence: Miss Horton presumed a great deal on such a slight acquaintance.

‘Is your daughter in London?’ she said, distracting him.

‘Yes. She’s staying at her old school. It is the principal’s daughter who is getting married.’

‘Would you permit me to call on her? She must be so curious about Charles, and I could tell her what I know of him.’

‘I could not possibly trespass on your good nature.’

‘Why not? I should like it.’

‘Perhaps when we are settled in our own home again, ma’am. Her friends do not know of Charles yet and she could not talk freely in their presence.’

‘Of course.’

She began to say something else but broke off almost at once. Her eyes moved away from Savill’s face and her expression changed. Savill turned. The Count was bearing down on them with Malbourne beside him.

Master and man?

‘Well, sir,’ the Count said, ‘Mr Malbourne has a position in a government department. I have been telling him that he must use his utmost endeavours to find my son. He will know just how to set about it, eh?’

Savill bowed in acknowledgement. Miss Horton curtseyed and withdrew to Mrs West on the sofa.

‘He has already promised to raise the matter with the Secretary of the Home Department,’ the Count went on. ‘You must hold yourself in readiness – he may wish to question you.’

Savill bowed again, suddenly conscious of his shabby coat and unshaven face.

Malbourne had brought with him a hint of perfume. From his neatly dressed hair to his gleaming shoes, he looked as if he were fresh from the attentions of his valet.

‘A private gentleman can do very little in such matters.’ The Count’s face was flushed a darker colour than usual. ‘I apprehend you are acquainted with Mr Malbourne. I cannot understand why you have not approached him yourself.’

‘The acquaintance is by no means close, my lord,’ Malbourne said. ‘And I have been out of town a good deal. So it’s not to be wondered at. But you may rest assured I shall do all I can.’

‘I am much obliged to you, sir.’ The Count had put on his grandest manner. ‘The more I see of you, the more you remind me of your father. I greatly prized his friendship.’

Malbourne bowed.

The Count smiled condescendingly at him and glared at Savill. ‘Pray assist Mr Malbourne in any way possible,’ he commanded. ‘For Charles’s sake.’

He strode away and sat down heavily in an armchair beside Mrs West’s sofa. Savill and Malbourne turned to face each other.

‘Does Mr Rampton know of this?’ Savill said quietly.

‘That I’m here? No.’

‘He cannot approve it.’

‘You are at liberty to inform him of it. If you wish.’ The right half of Malbourne’s face was brightly lit by the candles burning in a wall sconce beside him. The left half was in shadow, almost black. ‘On the other hand, sir, you might do well to reflect that there is more at issue here than you are aware of, and you would be wise to tread carefully.’

With that, Malbourne turned on his heel. His abrupt and unfriendly manner was sharply at odds with his customary suavity. Savill watched him approaching the sofa, bowing to Mrs West and Miss Horton, and venturing some pleasantry that made both ladies laugh. The Count, who had picked up a newspaper, looked up and smiled at him.

Everyone’s favourite, Savill thought, and the rascal does it so naturally, damn him, so elegantly.

‘And how are you, sir?’ Dr Gohlis said, approaching Savill from the other direction with Monsieur Fournier in tow. ‘Does the site of the extraction pain you still?’

Savill turned. ‘Slightly, sir, if I am honest. But nothing like it did.’

‘I am sure Mrs West would not object if I looked inside your mouth for a moment. Pray step this way.’

The doctor drew Savill towards the sconce and asked him to open his mouth. He tilted Savill’s head to make the best use of the light. Fournier watched.

‘Ah, that is much better. You must expect some soreness, even a little swelling. But keep it clean and it will soon heal completely. Rinse three times a day with salt water.’

Savill said he was much obliged.

‘By the way, was the telescope I found of any use? Did you enquire about it at Mr Vereker’s?’

‘Indeed.’ Savill was aware of Fournier hovering beside them. ‘He confirmed that the glass came from his workshop. But it was some time ago. He could not put his hand on the record of the sale.’

‘What a pity.’

‘I shall write to Mr Horton,’ Savill said, ‘and enquire whether he wishes me to send the glass to him by way of Mrs West.’

The Count called Gohlis over to him, leaving Savill alone with Fournier.

‘A charming young man,’ Fournier said, glancing towards Malbourne and the ladies. ‘He will go far. I understand he is betrothed to a fine heiress as well.’ He smiled at Savill. ‘You should cultivate him.’

‘Have you known him long, sir?’

Fournier shook his head. ‘Not until tonight. But Monsieur de Quillon was friendly with his father before the Revolution, and Mr Malbourne encountered him when he was last in Paris.’ The smile was rueful. ‘But it was not the best of times to pursue the pleasures of society and there was no opportunity to take the acquaintance further. I believe that he was obliged to leave the city almost immediately afterwards.’

‘Why?’

‘Lord Gower – the British Ambassador – judged it prudent, I assume, and ordered him to go. Whenever there is trouble, the citizens of Paris tend to think that the English have a hand in it.’

Savill looked sharply at him. ‘When was this, pray?’

‘In August.’

‘This August?’

‘Yes.’ Fournier’s handsome features twisted and became ugly. ‘When the mob stormed the Tuileries and so many gallant people were slaughtered in the name of liberty. What a night that was. What a terrible night.’

Charles has a headache. That is the first fact. The second is that he feels nauseous.

He has been sleeping. Or perhaps he fainted. He has an insubstantial memory of a dark, confined place, of swaying and bumping, and of an unyielding surface beneath him. When he tries to recall it, the memory dissolves.

There are smells now. Earth. Urine. Something stuffy and acrid, perhaps the bedding. The mustiness of damp, so familiar from Charnwood.

He listens. A distant sighing that might be the wind. His own breathing. A moment later, he realizes that something is missing.
London is never silent.
Even in Nightingale Lane, even at night, you hear the sounds of the city.

So that means …?

His fingers explore. Sheets. Some coarse material, not fine linen. A pillow. Blankets on top of him.

He extends his arm and finds more material. Heavier. Hanging. Yielding to his touch. A curtain.

He opens his eyes. It is dark, but that may be the curtain blocking the light. He pushes it again, trying to find the gap.

A draught of cold air brushes the skin of his hand and arm and then touches his face. Still he sees nothing. His skin grows cold.

Night?

Charles lies back on the pillow and draws the bedclothes up to his neck. The nausea has gone, leaving thirst behind. The skin inside his mouth is rough on the tip of his tongue. One of his first memories is of how, when he was a baby, a cat sat in his cot and licked his face for what seemed like hours, an activity that pleased both of them immensely. The same roughness as the cat’s tongue.