The Scent of Death. Andrew Taylor

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      ‘Mr Noak,’ Marryot said. ‘Have the goodness to open the press and bring us what you find on the third shelf down.’

      The press was a tall cupboard in an alcove by the empty fireplace. Noak took out a pair of black round-toed shoes with plain steel buckles on the flaps. He set them down on the table. The prisoner moaned softly at the sight of them. Marryot stretched out a hand and removed a small leather bag from one of the shoes.

      ‘So,’ he said. ‘When they brought you in last night, these shoes were on your feet.’

      I picked up one of the shoes. The uppers were scuffed and creased. The sole needed reheeling. But the leather was good.

      ‘We had information that these shoes belonged to Mr Pickett,’ Marryot said. ‘I had them sent over to Beekman Street this morning. The kitchen boy who cleans the shoes is sure that these were Pickett’s.’

      ‘Information?’ I said. ‘From whom, sir?’

      ‘It don’t signify, sir. All that signifies is that the information is good. You’ll grant me that, I hope?’

      Virgil lifted his head and, for the first time, looked directly at me.

      ‘You need not enter Mr Savill’s questions into the record either, Noak,’ Marryot said.

      He untied the drawstring that fastened the bag and upended it. A heavy gold ring dropped on the palm of his hand.

      ‘It’s a seal ring,’ he said, holding it up between finger and thumb. ‘It has a stag incised on it. The woman at the house where he lodges, the Widow Muller, swears it’s Pickett’s. He wore it on his left hand and she noted it most particularly – he was behind with what he owed, and when he said he could not pay directly, she asked him why he did not turn his ring into guineas and be done with it.’

      ‘I never seen it, master, I swear, sir. Hope to die, God’s my—’

      ‘But the shoes?’ I interrupted. ‘You’ve seen those before?’

      The prisoner glanced at me again. ‘Yes, sir.’

      ‘Of course he had,’ Marryot put in. ‘They were on his damned feet when they arrested him.’

      ‘And where did you get them, Virgil?’ I said.

      ‘I – I found them, your honour.’

      ‘On Mr Pickett’s body?’

      ‘Yes, sir. Poor gentleman was lying there, all dead. I thought he didn’t need them, so what’s the harm? Look, sir.’ He pointed down at his feet. ‘I lost a toe to frostbite last winter.’

      ‘He was dead because you’d killed him,’ Marryot said. ‘That’s how you knew, eh? So you helped yourself to his shoes and took the ring off his finger as well.’

      ‘No, sir, weren’t no ring when I found him.’

      ‘Then why was the ring in your bundle?’

      Virgil shook his head violently. ‘Didn’t put it there, master, swear by—’

      ‘Hold your tongue, damn you.’ Marryot looked at the soldiers, who were staring blankly at the wall behind the table. ‘Take him away. Keep him in irons.’

      No one spoke until the guards had led out the prisoner. Marryot stood up and went to the window.

      ‘Well, gentlemen,’ he said, still with his back to the room. ‘This need not detain us much longer, I think? The evidence points to the knave’s guilt.’

      ‘No rational man could entertain a doubt about it,’ Townley said, yawning. ‘If someone else had killed him, he would not have left the ring on Pickett’s finger. Shall Noak write you out a fair copy of the proceedings?’

      ‘I’d be obliged.’

      Mr Noak dipped his head.

      ‘When you write it up, you should mention that Mr Savill of the American Department was present as an observer,’ Marryot went on, turning to face us. ‘But anything he said may be omitted.’

      ‘Now what?’ I said.

      ‘Why, sir, what do you think?’ Marryot said. ‘We wait and let the law take its course. Martial law, that is.’

       Chapter Twelve

      On the night of Wednesday, I heard the child crying again. In the morning, I mentioned it to Josiah, the older of the two manservants. It must be one of the neighbour’s infants in the slave quarters, he said – he would investigate and have the nuisance abated. I said he should not trouble himself; it did not matter in the least.

      The administration had found me an apartment to use as an office in a house it leased at the eastern end of Broad Street, not far from the City Hall. It was a pokey chamber up two pairs of stairs. My first caller was already waiting for me – a clergyman from Connecticut whom the rebels had turned out of his parsonage and parish. His crime had been to preach a sermon whose text had been Luke Chapter 20, verse 25. ‘And he said unto them, Render therefore unto Caesar the things which be Caesar’s, and unto God the things which be God’s.’ Caesar in this case was intended to be taken as George III rather than Congress. The poor man had lost all he owned, including a farm he had inherited from an uncle.

      Shortly before dinnertime, Townley swept into the room. ‘Why, sir,’ he said without any preamble, ‘I have just this moment heard from the Major and I clapped on my hat at once and said to myself I should give myself the pleasure of bringing the news to you directly.’

      I rose to my feet. ‘What news? A battle?’

      ‘Nothing of that nature. It’s the negro – Virgil. He came before the court this morning and they found him guilty of Pickett’s murder. Marryot says the fellow is to hang tomorrow morning. Sir Henry Clinton has confirmed the sentence. They say the Commander-in-Chief wishes to make an example of this man to deter other slaves.’

      ‘Is justice always so swift in New York?’

      Townley shrugged. ‘Military courts have this to be said for them, at least: they do not drag their heels. Besides, at this time especially, when the city is awash with rumours about rebel incendiarists within our lines, it does no harm to show that we have the city firmly in our control. Will you come, sir?’

      ‘What? To the hanging?’

      ‘Of course – I am obliged to attend for the city and I thought it might interest you to accompany me. It’s as well to know how these things are done. Matters have arranged themselves very neatly. It’s at eight o’clock, and they will give us breakfast afterwards. They keep a good table.’ Townley took out his watch. ‘Talking of which, my dear sir, I believe it is time to dine.’

      After dining with Townley, I had walked back towards my office, skirting the fringe of Canvas Town. It was very hot and I did not hurry. I was not yet sure of my way, and by chance I found myself passing Van Cortlandt’s Sugar House.

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