The Scent of Death

‘Would you excuse me this once, sir?’ Mrs Arabella took the Judge’s hand in both of hers. ‘My head is still splitting – it is this terrible heat, I think.’ She stroked her father-in-law’s hand as though it were a small animal in need of reassurance. ‘I came down for a moment to welcome Mr Savill. I would not want him to think us unmannerly.’

‘Never that, madam,’ I said. ‘You are politeness itself. But I am sorry you are indisposed.’

‘You must take something,’ the Judge said. ‘Have Miriam mix you up a James’s Powder. I’m sure it will answer.’

‘Yes, sir, you may be sure I shall.’

Mrs Arabella kissed her parents-in-law. She curtsied to me and left the room.

‘The dear child should not overdo it,’ the Judge observed, sinking back into his chair.

The flurry of movement gave me the opportunity to withdraw. I had been up at dawn, I explained, and my first day ashore had been a tiring one.

‘Be so good as to ring the bell, sir,’ the Judge said. ‘Josiah will bring a candle and take you up to your chamber.’

The manservant conducted me up the stairs. My room was at the back of the house on the second floor. Square and low-ceilinged, it was dominated by a high bed with an enormous feather mattress. My bags and boxes had been brought up during the day.

I dismissed the man for the night. It struck me that it was only now, for the first time in over five weeks, that I was alone. Noak had always been there on the Earl of Sandwich, usually within arm’s reach. Even in the ship’s heads, someone else had generally been beside me or at least within sight and sound. Nor had I been alone today. Indeed, my overwhelming impression was that this was a city where it would be almost impossible to be solitary, for the streets and buildings were packed with people – townsfolk, refugees, British and Loyalist soldiers, and the crowds of followers that accumulate around an army.

I undressed, allowing my clothes to lie where they fell. For a moment I stood naked at the foot of the bed, hoping for a draught to cool my skin. But the air was warm and motionless.

I was too tired to read. Leaving the bed-curtains tied back, I climbed into bed. I laid myself on top of the bedclothes. The mattress enveloped me. I pinched out the candle.

The darkness was soft and caressing. I found myself thinking of Mrs Arabella. Because the drawing room had been so dimly lit, and because she had not come close to any of the candles, I had not seen her face clearly – it had been no more than a pale smudge floating above her body.

My impression of her derived from information provided by other senses. First, there had been the scent of otto of roses: but the smell of it had combined with the private odours of Mrs Arabella herself to form something richer and denser. Second, I remembered her voice, which had not been like any other I knew. This was partly because she spoke with an American accent, though it was not the broad twang used by so many people I had heard today. Also, of course, she was a woman, with the soft, insinuating tone that certain women possessed.

There had been no women aboard the Earl of Sandwich. To my surprise I felt my naked body responding even to this largely formless memory of Mrs Arabella with a rush of blood that both disconcerted and embarrassed me.

Hastily I directed my attention to my wife, Augusta. I imagined her walking in the park or reading or talking about the clothes and homes of other ladies, as she seemed interminably to do; and by degrees I grew calmer.

In the silence and the darkness, I thought about my daughter. Lizzie had wept when I left her. She was five now, and living with my sister in Shepperton, for her mother had remained in London. I prayed for my daughter’s happiness and for her preservation from all harm, as I did every night.

As I lay there, I became aware that the silence was no longer as absolute as it had been. Somewhere in the distance, a barely distinguishable sound rose and fell in volume in a series of irregular ululations.

The wind in the chimney? A bird of the night? An animal in pain? I did not recognize the sound but that was not strange in itself, for I was in a strange house in a strange city on the coast of a strange continent.

A minute or so slipped by. The sound grew fainter and then stopped altogether.

By that time I was sliding into sleep. My last conscious thought was that the sound might have been a weeping child. But, God be thanked, someone had dried her tears.

Chapter Seven

My Dear Daughter—

I put down the pen and stared out of the window. How did I find the words that would speak directly to a five-year-old child? How could I assure my Lizzie at a distance of three thousand miles of my paternal care and love for her?

After a voyage of five weeks I arrived here without any accident and in as good health as when I left you in Shepperton. The conviction that you will derive more benefit from where you are than if still with me has consoled me greatly on my parting from you.

Dull, I thought – dull, dull, dull. But I must write something to let her know I am safe and that she is in my thoughts. Anything was better than nothing.

Pray give my service to your aunt and ask her to write to me every week to tell me how you all do.

I reminded myself that a father should provide moral guidance to his children. In the rearing of the young, the tender emotions should be, by and large, the province of the tender sex.

If you love me, strive to be good under every situation and to all living creatures, and to acquire those accomplishments which I have put in your power, and which will go far towards ensuring you the warmest love of your affectionate father,

E. Savill

I threw down the pen more violently this time. Ink drops spattered across the table. A moment later, I picked up the pen again, dipped it in the inkpot and wrote in a swift scrawl:

Postscriptum: It feels strange to be on dry land. It does not wobble like the sea. New York is monstrous hot and busy. It is full of our soldiers, and very brave and gay they look in their fine uniforms. I saw many great ships in the harbour. Last night I slept in a featherbed that was as big as an elephant.

I folded the letter, addressed it, and put it to one side, ready to be sealed. It was still early in the morning and the sun was on the other side of the house. I took a fresh sheet and wrote:

My dear Augusta – We are safely arrived in New York, after a passage of some five weeks and two days. The—

I paused again. At this moment, I could think of nothing to write after The. Augusta would not wish to know that the weather was hot or that my mattress was as big as an elephant. Nor perhaps would she wish to hear that I was lodging in a house with a woman who smelled of otto of roses.

As I waited, three drops of ink fell from the pen and blotted the paper. I swore, crumpled up the sheet and tossed it into the empty fireplace. I set down the pen, propped my head on my hands and stared at the view.

The writing table was drawn up to the room’s single window, which looked out on a small garden laid out with bushes and gravelled walks in the old style. To the left was a service yard with a line of outbuildings. On the right, beyond a high wall, was another street, for Judge Wintour’s house stood at an intersection.

At the bottom of the garden, in the angle where the rear wall met the long side wall, was a square pavilion built of red bricks, with the quoins and architraves dressed with stone. Beside it was a narrow gate to the street. The little building was raised above the road. A flight of shallow steps led up to a glazed door on the side facing the house, and there was a tall window on at least two of the other sides. It was some sort of summerhouse, I thought, a species of gazebo or belvedere. Lizzie would love to play house there. I would describe it to her in my next letter.

I took up the pen again.

I have not yet seen much of the house where I am to lodge for I did not arrive here until yesterday evening. It is in Warren Street, not far from King’s College. Judge Wintour was most welcoming and he was gratified to have intelligence of your Uncle Rampton, for whom he entertains the most cordial regard. Pray believe me to be your most devoted servant in all things, ES.

I rang the bell. A young manservant named Abraham, little more than a boy, showed me down to the parlour where the table was set for breakfast. He said that Mrs Wintour rarely rose before midday, and that the Judge and Mrs Arabella were still in their rooms.

While I was eating, there was a double knock on the street door. Abraham returned to say that a gentleman had called to see me.

‘Me? Is it Mr Townley?’

‘No, your honour. A Mr Noak.’

‘Very well. You had better ask him to step in.’

Noak bowed from the doorway. ‘Your servant, sir. I apologize for calling on you so early. I fear necessity has no manners.’

I had a sudden, uncomfortable memory of vomiting over a pewter platter containing Mr Noak’s dinner, not a fortnight ago. ‘My dear sir, in that case necessity is a welcome guest. Pray join me – have you breakfasted?’

Noak perched on the edge of a chair. He said he had already had breakfast but would be glad of a cup of coffee.

‘I know you must be much engaged at present,’ he said. ‘But I did not know whom to turn to.’

I guessed that Noak wanted money. People always wanted money. Townley had been right, when he talked at dinner of Congress’s lack of gold, its fatal weakness: None of us can do without money, eh?

‘—so any form of employment commensurate with my skills and small talents, sir.’

‘What?’ I said. ‘I beg your pardon, I did not quite catch what you said before that.’

‘I said that unfortunately the position I had been invited to fill no longer exists, sir. The gentleman I was to work for has died, and his son has wound up the business. There it is – I have come all this way for nothing, and now I am in want of a situation.’

‘I am sorry to hear it. But I’m not sure what I can do to help – except offer you another cup of coffee.’

Noak shook his head. ‘May I hope for your good offices? You will soon, I’m sure, have an extensive acquaintance here. If you should come across a gentleman who is in want of a clerk – with, I may say, the very highest character from his previous employer in London, as well as considerable experience in the management of affairs both in America and in London – then I beg that you might mention my name.’

‘Nothing would give me greater pleasure,’ I said. ‘But …’

‘I know,’ Noak interrupted. ‘I am clutching at straws, sir. But a man in my position must clutch at something.’

‘Of course.’ I liked the man’s doggedness, his refusal to be cowed. ‘Leave me your direction, sir – I will send you a line if I hear of a place.’

The American took out a pocket book and pencil. ‘A line addressed to the Charing Cross Tavern will always find me.’

A moment later, he pushed back his chair and said abruptly that he would not trouble me any further. It was clear that asking the favour had not come easily to him, and I liked him the better for it.

After I had finished breakfast, I was passing through the hall when I heard another knock at the front door. Abraham opened it. A servant was on the step. I heard him mention my name. Abraham took a letter from him and presented it with a low bow to me. I tore it open.

Mr Savill

I have just this moment received intelligence that our body yesterday has acquired a name: a corporal on the Commandant’s staff says he is a Mr Roger Pickett, a gentleman newly arrived in New York, who was lodging at Widow Muller’s on Beekman Street (opposite St George’s Chapel). Major Marryot suggests we meet him there as soon as is convenient. The bearer of this will conduct you to the house if you are at leisure. If not, I shall do myself the honour of waiting on you later in the day.

Yours, etc. C. Townley

Judge Wintour came down the stairs, clinging to the rail.

‘Mr Savill, good morning. I hope you have passed a satisfactory night. You’ve breakfasted, I hear. Would you do me the kindness of sitting with me and taking another cup of coffee while I have mine? There is much I should like to ask you about the current state of affairs in London.’

‘Nothing would give me more pleasure, sir – but perhaps I might defer our conversation until later.’ I held up the letter. ‘I have to go out.’

The Judge’s eyes had strayed to the open door, where the messenger was waiting. ‘You there,’ he said, his voice suddenly sharp. ‘You’re Mr Townley’s man, aren’t you?’

‘Yes, your honour. He sent me for Mr Savill.’

‘Another dreadful crime, I suppose,’ the Judge said. ‘I have never known the city like this. We shall soon be murdered in our beds.’

‘Yes, sir. And murder it is. A gentleman, too – Mr Pickett.’

‘What?’ The Judge clung to the newel post at the foot of the stairs. Abraham moved instantly to his other side and took his arm. ‘Roger Pickett? But it can’t be.’ The old man turned his faded blue eyes from the servant’s face to mine. ‘Mr Pickett was in this very house, sir – not a week ago.’

Chapter Eight

‘Not a man of substance, as you see,’ Townley said. ‘Not now.’

The little room was at the back of the house in Beekman Street and on the third floor. The window overlooked a farrier’s yard. It was warm and close. I heard a roll of thunder in the distance.

Roger Pickett’s possessions were strewn over the bed, the table, the one chair, the chest and the floor. Mingled with them were unwashed glasses, plates, bottles, bowls and cups, many with scraps of rotting food still adhering to them. Widow Muller, the woman who kept the house, was a slattern. Besides, she had told Marryot that Pickett could not pay for the maid’s services.

I stood in the doorway, hat in hand. ‘Had he lived here long?’

‘A matter of ten days,’ the Major said. ‘Time enough to turn it into a pigsty.’

Townley was delving into the papers on the table. He raised his head and smiled at me. ‘I fancy he would have called on you, if his life had been spared.’

‘I suppose he desired compensation like the rest of them?’ Marryot said, opening the chest. ‘Dear God, you Americans are like hogs around a trough – not you, of course, sir; there must be exceptions to every rule – but I hold by the general principle.’

‘No doubt Mr Pickett suffered losses, sir,’ Townley said coldly. ‘Most of us have.’ He held up a sheet of paper. ‘It appears he came down from Philadelphia.’

‘After the evacuation?’

‘Yes. But he had only been there a matter of weeks. According to this he was originally from North Carolina.’

Marryot snorted. ‘Ha! I wager his loyalty has cost him a fortune. It is curious, is it not? All our refugees claim to have been as rich as Croesus before the war. It’s as if gold grew on the very trees here.’

I took a step into the room. ‘It should not be difficult to establish Mr Pickett’s situation, sir. Judge Wintour says he was acquainted with his daughter-in-law, Mrs Arabella.’

‘What?’ Marryot said. ‘What? No one told me that.’

Townley frowned. ‘Acquainted? How?’

‘Only slightly, I believe.’ I looked from one to the other. ‘It appears that Mrs Arabella’s late father met the man when he was in North Carolina before the war.’

‘Her father? Mr Froude?’ Townley rubbed his beak of a nose. ‘You are full of surprises, sir.’

‘Why did you not tell me earlier?’ Marryot said.

‘I’ve only just found you, sir,’ I pointed out. ‘And I did not hear of Mr Pickett’s visit to Warren Street until this morning – the Judge was with me when Mr Townley’s billet arrived. In any case, even if I had known about it yesterday evening, I could hardly have known its significance since the corpse had not been identified.’

Marryot coloured but did not apologize. ‘Why did Pickett call on them? And when, precisely?’

‘Last Thursday, sir – it was a morning call. He was but recently arrived and he called to renew his acquaintance with them, which I believe was very slight. He did not stay long for both the Judge and Mrs Arabella were obliged to go out.’

‘What did she say of him?’ Townley asked. ‘Mrs Arabella, I mean?’

‘I have not seen her this morning, sir. Indeed, I met her only for a moment last night.’

Townley shrugged. ‘It don’t signify – we shall probably find that Pickett called on everyone he had ever scraped an acquaintance with. All the refugees do that when they first come to New York. What else can the poor devils do? It is a form of genteel beggary.’

Marryot limped over to the table. ‘What have we here?’

‘I believe this to be a list of debts, sir.’ Townley handed him a sheet of paper. ‘Nearly two hundred guineas in all. But we cannot tell who his creditors are. There’s only a single initial beside each figure. Large sums. Guineas and pounds, not shillings and pence.’

‘A gambler,’ Marryot said. ‘What did I tell you?’

I slipped two fingers into my waistcoat pocket and took out the die I had found on Pickett’s body. It was made of ivory, not of bone or wood. A genteel die for a genteel beggar.

Townley smiled at me. ‘You have corroboration in the palm of your hand, I fancy. Faro? Backgammon? Fortunes change hands every night in this city at a throw of the dice.’

‘A man who gambles in Canvas Town is a fool,’ Marryot said.

‘Or desperate for money,’ Townley said. ‘Plenty of men go to Canvas Town after nightfall who would not be seen there in the day. Darkness covers a multitude of sins, does it not? And do you not think that if Pickett could not pay his debts …?’

‘Very likely – but I doubt we’ll ever know.’ Marryot took up another paper. ‘Depend upon it, if we find the murderer at all, we shall find him in Canvas Town.’

‘When did the people of the house last see Mr Pickett?’ I asked.

‘Sunday afternoon,’ Marryot said. ‘He dined at the tavern over the way and came back here to change his shirt. He didn’t stay long – he went out at about five o’clock. That was the last they saw of him. We must trace the next of kin.’

We did not linger in Pickett’s chamber. It was stiflingly hot and so small that the three of us made it unpleasantly crowded. Marryot leafed through the rest of the papers. In a satchel, he found an unfinished and undated letter written in a sprawling, untidy hand.

My dear sister, I am safely arrived in New York from Philadelphia. My design prospers, and I have great hopes that my fortunes will soon

‘His design?’ Townley said. ‘A gambler’s new and quite infallible system, no doubt. The next turn of the cards, the next throw of the dice, and all will be changed.’

‘No indication who the sister is, where she lives,’ Marryot said. ‘Perhaps Mrs Arabella knows.’ He pulled out his watch. ‘We’ve done all we can here. I’ll leave a guard at the door and have the room sealed up.’

‘What other enquiries will you make now, sir?’ I asked.

‘I shall make my report to the Commandant and he will order me to do as he thinks fit. Which may very well be nothing. That would certainly be my advice. We are in the middle of a war, sir, and young men are dying every day. I cannot waste my time on every fool who pays the price for his folly.’

‘Very true, sir,’ Townley put in. ‘In any case, what can one do unless a witness comes forward? And I’m afraid one does not find many public-spirited citizens in Canvas Town.’

‘But is this your usual policy with murder, sir?’ I said to Marryot. ‘You bury the dead and let the perpetrator go free?’

‘May I remind you again, sir? We are at war.’ He limped to the door. ‘The civil population cannot enjoy the same privileges and the same degree of comfort as it does in peacetime. New York looks to the army for its protection, and military objectives are of paramount importance.’

Townley stared at the sloping ceiling. ‘Still,’ he said, ‘I hope that the news of Mr Pickett’s death does not distress the Judge or Mrs Arabella.’

Once again, the blood rushed to Marryot’s face. ‘No, indeed. It is fortunate that the acquaintance was slight.’

There, I thought, my anger subsiding, there is the man’s weak spot: Mrs Arabella Wintour.

Chapter Nine

Shortly after one o’clock, there was an explosion.

It came without warning, an enormous, reverberating crash that swept over the city like an invisible tidal wave. For an instant, silence fell, an auditory equivalent to the trough following the wave.

Time seemed to elongate itself in defiance of the natural laws regulating the universe. I saw Townley’s face in profile beside me, the mouth open, the nose jutting outwards, his features as rigid as if turned to stone. The horses walking and trotting down Broadway stopped moving. Two oxen pulling a wagon not ten yards away might have fallen asleep where they stood. The trees on either side of the avenue were motionless. The leg of a dog lying in the shade of a shop doorway was as stiff as a ramrod now though an instant before it had been a blur as the animal scratched its ribcage.

All this dissolved into a flurry of movement. The nearer of the oxen collided with the trunk of a tree. A horse reared and a Hessian officer tumbled from its saddle. The dog scrambled into the darkness of the shop behind him, its tail between its legs. A plump middle-aged woman fainted. Her maid tried to support her but her mistress’s weight was too heavy for her, and they both fell to the ground.

The sounds were slower to return. They came in scraps and fragments, muffled at first, and accompanied by a ringing in my ears. Townley yelped, ‘Christ!’ A window shattered across the street. Shouts and screams filled the air. Horses neighed. Oxen bellowed.

Several soldiers stumbled down the road at a trot towards Fort George. The middle-aged woman woke up and went into violent hysterics, pummelling the poor maid without mercy. Townley touched my sleeve and pointed over the roofline of the houses on the other side of the street. A feathery column of black smoke was rising into the sky.

‘The French fleet?’ I said, and my voice sounded muffled and remote.

‘There would have been some warning if they were that close inshore. I think one of the ammunition ships must have blown up.’

‘By accident?’

‘God knows.’ Townley dabbed his face with a scented handkerchief. ‘First the fire, now this. Look at that damned smoke – it’s like a black plume at a funeral. Either it’s cursed ill luck or we have enemies within.’

‘My windows!’ cried the plump woman, suddenly emerging from her hysterics. ‘Quick, girl, what are you about? Help me up, we must go home.’

The Hessian officer scrambled to his feet and stumbled after his bolting horse, leaving a stream of German oaths behind him. The shopkeeper, a perruquier in apron and shirtsleeves with a face as pale as his own powder, appeared in his doorway with the dog cowering at his heels as though it had been given one whipping and feared another.

Townley and I walked quickly down Broadway toward Fort George. But there was nothing to be learned at Headquarters, either about the explosion or about the unfortunate Pickett.

I scribbled a note to Mr Rampton and enclosed with it the letters I had earlier written to Lizzie and Augusta. Townley showed me to the Post Room and introduced me to the head clerk who guarded the mails. The letters would go out in the lead-weighted Government mailbags by the first packet that sailed for home.

‘Though God knows when that will be,’ the official observed. ‘What with the rebels within and the French fleet without.’