The Scent of Death. Andrew Taylor

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       Chapter Fourteen

      ‘The air is a little cooler, I find,’ Mrs Arabella said. ‘But we rarely sit here in the evening because Mrs Wintour finds it fatiguing to walk so far.’

      ‘I distinctly felt a draught on my cheek, madam,’ I said. ‘Indeed, it is very pleasant with all the windows open.’

      I could hardly believe the banality of my own conversation. For a moment my remark seemed to have stunned the others into silence. Mrs Arabella must have thought me the most pompous fool in creation.

      We were sitting in the summerhouse at the bottom of the Wintours’ garden. Mrs Wintour had been too tired to come down for supper. Afterwards, the Judge had suggested that the three of us take our tea in the belvedere.

      ‘There is a charming westerly prospect of Vauxhall Garden and the grounds of King’s College,’ Mr Wintour had said. ‘One can glimpse the North River beyond. Though of course it will be almost dark by the time we are settled. Still, it will be agreeable to know that the prospect is there, will it not?’

      The twilight was already far advanced, though we had not had the candles lit because of the flying insects their flames would attract. The air smelled faintly of lemon juice and vinegar, an agreeable contrast to the stink that pervaded so much of the city.

      I turned towards Mr Wintour. ‘I had meant to enquire sooner, sir: is there any news of the goat?’

      ‘No. I fear the worst. But I have placed an advertisement in the Gazette. Nil desperandum must be our motto in this matter, as well as in our larger concerns.’

      I wondered whether to mention the boy who had been selling goat meat outside the barracks before the hanging. It was impossible to be sure, but he might have been the boy whom I had seen with a living goat and the scar-faced negro on the day we had inspected Roger Pickett’s body. But even if it had been—

      ‘Her milk is much missed, sir,’ Mrs Arabella said, picking up the teapot and breaking my train of thought. ‘If we have lost her, I fear it will be nigh impossible to find another milch goat.’

      She was wearing a pale gown that in the fading light made her almost luminous. She refilled my cup. I rose to take it and, in doing so, I felt the warmth radiating from her body and smelled the perfume I remembered from that first evening: otto of roses, mingled with her own peculiar fragrance. As I took the cup and saucer, her finger brushed my hand.

      ‘No more tea for me, my dear,’ Mr Wintour said, struggling to his feet. ‘I must see how Mrs Wintour does and then I shall retire for the night.’

      For a moment we watched the old man picking his way down the path towards the garden door of the house.

      Mrs Arabella stirred in her chair, and the wicker creaked beneath her body. ‘Miriam tells me you went to see that man hanged this morning.’

      ‘Yes, ma’am, I did. A melancholy duty.’

      ‘Did he confess to the murder in the end?’

      ‘I believe not.’

      ‘You would think a man would speak the truth if he knew he was to go before his maker in a few moments.’

      ‘He may have desired to confess, ma’am. But he was not given an opportunity as far as I know. But forgive me – the subject must be painful to you.’

      The wicker creaked again. ‘Yes, of course. Though I barely knew Mr Pickett – but his murder is a terrible thing. Tell me, sir – was it – was it a hard death?’

      I stared at her in the gathering dusk. ‘Mr Pickett’s?’

      ‘No, no – I mean the man who was hanged for the murder.’

      ‘How can it not have been?’ I said, more sharply than I intended.

      ‘I spoke without thinking.’ She sounded upset, though there was not enough light for me to read her expression. ‘But – but there must be degrees in these matters, must there not?’

      ‘It cannot have been easy.’ I remembered Virgil’s clenched fists, the kicking feet and, most vividly of all, the hands that had risen from beneath the scaffold to give the sharp, fatal tug at the slave’s ankles. ‘But it did not take long.’

      She sighed. ‘I am glad of that, at least. Of course they do not have feelings as we do.’

      ‘Who do not?’

      ‘Negros. They are made of coarser clay. Indeed, many of them are little better than beasts of the field. Most negros have no more idea of true religion or morality than the man in the moon.’

      ‘I cannot believe that to be true, madam,’ I said. ‘Their situation may be inferior to ours, their education neglected, but one cannot blame them for that. Indeed, if we blame anyone, surely we must blame ourselves for their shortcomings.’

      She threw back her head and laughed with such spontaneous merriment that I found myself smiling in sympathy. ‘Oh, you would not say that if you knew them as I do, sir.’

      ‘But I have encountered many negros in London, СКАЧАТЬ