The Silversmith's Wife _ Sophia Tobin (9 page)

Digby muttered and sang to himself as he strode along, leaning forwards, uncomfortable and eager to be on home turf. He felt as though there was a knot in his brain that he could not untie. Pawning the watch would have given him a substantial sum of money, perhaps even enough to win the favour of a woman, for even had he stowed most of the money away, there would have been enough to buy her a new bonnet and as many ribbons as she wanted. It was all the pretty ones wanted: a few coins flashed before their eyes.

The streets were busy; the sedan chairs were halting, almost piling up on each other; there was the clatter of hooves as the horse pulling a hackney carriage shied at a street seller. Two men were arguing over a debt in the middle of the street. As he hurried on, weaving his way through the other pedestrians, Digby felt the disquiet and conflict of the city grate on him; he had enough to deal with, starting with the rattling contents of his own brain. Renard’s death had seemed to him some kind of happy accident; he had only seen the watch, snatched up the beauty, seen an opportunity and taken it. But as the days passed he had began to wonder: what had he been thinking of to take the valuables of a murdered man, and one he had known? He was divided between distress at his actions and fear for his own safety. He had even begun to fancy that the murderer had stood nearby when he found the body, watching from the shadows, and it had disturbed his sleep last night, his own cry of panic waking him.

At the top of it, there was Mr Maynard to worry about. Fine Mr Maynard, stopping him on Bond Street the other morning to ask questions about Pierre Renard. When he’d started talking, Digby had clamped his hand around the watch, feverish with fear, mumbled his excuses and gone straight to the Red Lion. If they found it on him, he’d be stretched by the neck in no time, and the thought of it made him want to weep with terror.

His pace quickened further. Finally, he reached the west churchyard of St James’s that fronted on to Jermyn Street. In the shadows, he coughed heartily. He thought of the coroner’s meeting for Pierre Renard. He remembered how he had stood, feeling secure and comfortable, with something like optimism framing his thoughts. He had never given himself to it completely, but its loss was still bitter.

He leaned against the wall, hoping it would support him for a moment. He knew what it all came down to, really; he had kept the watch because it was his secret. Having it with him gave him strength: its beauty was something he alone could enjoy. When he was able to hold it in his hand, and examine its details by the light of a candle, it was worth enduring the fear of discovery. It seemed to him to be fated, telling him of the life he was destined to live. Once he had thought he would make such objects, that he would finish his apprenticeship and be a maker of beauty. Owning it was a compensation, for it seemed to have its own kind of life, and it tempered his bitterness. To let another human being set eyes on it would taint its sanctity. He realized now that he could not let it go.

He was standing in the churchyard when he saw Dr Taylor come out of the church, followed by his wife. They’d been at prayer, he presumed, pulling his hat down to shade his face. You like praying, don’t you, Doctor? he thought. Such mealy-mouthed little prayers before you go to touch up all the fine ladies. You like taking possession of your godliness before you take possession of those women, summing them up, dismissing them, as you dismiss us all. And yet you have a wife who is happy to walk beside you. He couldn’t stop his thoughts running along dark channels, his heart beating faster, poisonous black bitterness in his heart’s blood. I lived a good life until now, he thought. Do I deserve this, the only comfort I have a piece of metal stolen from a corpse?

He wondered if he would be able to sleep before he went out on the watch again. He dreaded returning to his poky lodgings, to lie alone in the greyness of the winter afternoon. He breathed slowly, trying not to cough. Unseen, he listened to the good doctor whining to his wife.

‘It is a mess,’ Taylor said. ‘I would not have credited it: a man of his stature and exactness.’

‘But of course,’ said Amelia Taylor. ‘He thought he would live for ever.’

‘How do I explain it to her?’ he said.

‘Tell her the truth,’ she said. ‘That her husband wished her to marry a dead man; and that, since he is gone, her fate is to be decided by you.’

1st June, 1792

A letter from Sarah came in response to my own. On seeing the letter and recognizing her hand, I could hardly contain myself, and felt like a child being kept from a treat. I waited until I was alone to open it. Her phrasing was formal; even with my willing eyes I could see in her words barely a trace of the affection she once bore 4for me. She says her second son is not yet reconciled to choosing a trade, and is some five years too young. She does, however, ask that I consider a nephew of hers who lives in Shrewsbury, and wants for a profession. I will send for him; I have space for an apprentice to learn the running of the shop. I wrote back to her, and then on to Shrewsbury, to the address she enclosed. I thought one day my own son would learn my trade from me; and that still may be so, God willing. But it is my duty to ensure that my knowledge is passed to others lest I fall silent; and it does me good to help Sarah.

It was early morning when Mary took her seat on the south side of St James’s Piccadilly. She went there to see Eli’s stones. After his death, she had been frightened of losing the memory of her brother, but in one corner of this church it had always been clear and vivid. It was as though he toddled before her: six years old, but small for his age and often unsteady on his feet, so that he seemed younger. A decade old, this vision had grown more intense as time passed, as an oft-repeated prayer settles into the memory. As he walked, he trailed one small hand along the surface of the church wall, feeling each irregularity with his fingertips, his fingers as nimble as his legs were unsteady. He paused when he found his favourite stone: a patch where some plaster had come away, exposing a facet that was black and rough, as though the surface had been chipped away by some ancient tool, a flint split open, its texture changing from sharp to smooth. His small fingers had always dwelt on the roughest surface, as though he found some particular pleasure in it. The feeling of texture beneath his hands made more sense to him than words, for he rarely spoke. This had been his touchstone. It had been covered over long ago, but she knew the spot, and ran her fingertips over the inscription there.

I AM THE RESURRECTION, AND THE LIFE.

Eli turned, and smiled at her. His face was pale, as smooth as a sea-washed pebble, with a tiny, flat nose, and large, almond-shaped blue eyes. He often seemed to be in his own world; but he knew who loved him, and in those blue eyes that watched, his family saw a soul as wide and deep as the sea.

Many people had looked at Eli as though he was a curse to her family. They had learned soon enough to hold their tongues; for Mallory and Mary had spoken in the harshest terms to anyone who dared to speak against their brother. Still, the words ‘idiot’ and ‘imbecile’ had hovered just out of her hearing for years until Pierre had voiced them, only months after her marriage.

On that last terrible day, the last time she had ever ventured to the City, she had said: he is ours, and we love him. I love him.

Loved, he said. He has gone; and he will not return while I live.

She closed her eyes. I will not remember the parting, she thought. I will think of Eli happy.

In this aisle of the church, she had sat with her family the Sunday her banns were read for the third and final time. All seated together, jammed in the pew in their best clothes, grim-faced: Mary, her parents, Pierre, Mallory and her husband. And Eli, toddling away from them, taking advantage of the attention being elsewhere, as they held their breath.

I publish the banns of marriage . . .

If anyone knows of any lawful impediment. . .

In the midst of the solemnity and tension, there came the sound of Eli’s giggling. Toddling down the aisle, he had found the arms of a man who had picked him up and thrown him in the air. His laughter rang out, and continued until he was breathless. Some of the congregation laughed with him, others shook their heads with disapproval and took sharp intakes of breath. Mary didn’t notice Pierre’s annoyance. She turned, and smiled at Eli’s delight, and her eyes met those of the man who held him. The memory of that moment still made her catch her breath, half in recognition of its joy, half in mourning for its brevity.

The man was a visitor to the church, a cousin of her childhood friend, Jesse Chamac, her father had said. She had curtseyed to him, listened intently as her father had passed a few words with him. He had a soft, agreeable voice, and when he smiled it was as though a shaft of sunlight had fallen on his face. ‘We met long ago,’ he said to her. ‘When we were children. That is, I was a boy of fourteen, and you were not even as tall as this young man.’ And he had rested his hand on Eli’s head. Eli, still for a brief moment, had looked up at him.

Mary had nodded, for though she had not known him immediately, there was something familiar about him. After a few minutes’ worth of polite conversation, her father had guided Mary away, to tell her of Pierre’s displeasure. She hadn’t known it then, but that would be the last time her family would be together, united, with some sense of hope. She had never said goodbye to the man, but remembered glancing back, and seeing him speaking to Pierre.

Now, she remembered. They had met first on the day her father had taken her to the Assay Office. Letter by letter, his name emerged in her mind, as though it had always been there. Alban Steele.

‘Ah, Miss Dunning,’ said Mrs Holland, as she surprised Joanna coming down the back stairs from the garret. ‘We’d all been wondering where you’d got to, disappearing to your room again.’

‘What’s going on?’ said Joanna, ignoring the remark. The housekeeper was holding a pile of folded linen in her arms, but had stopped beside a landing window, as though something had arrested her attention during her climb up the stairs.

‘They’re all out there with the new coachman,’ said Mrs Holland, glancing at her. ‘A fine fellow he is, too. He’ll be charging for the girls to look at him soon.’

Joanna came down the two steps between them and looked over the woman’s shoulder.

The coachman was below them. His back was turned and he was brushing off the master’s horse, dressed in a linen frock coat that he had put on over his other clothes to protect them. Mrs Holland was right: he was a fine, strong man, just as Joanna’s Stephen, also a coachman, had been. He had broad shoulders and she could see from the way he moved that his limbs were powerful. She doubted that he had her lover’s gentleness, and his almost occult sense of horsemanship. But if she stared for long enough, and allowed her eyes to blur a little, he might almost be Stephen. For Stephen had worn such a shirt, and he too had dark brown hair beneath his wig, that curled at the nape of his neck; such a curl as the one she had given to Mr Renard to be set in a pendant.

She felt the tears rising in her eyes again and blinked them back, cursing herself for having left her room at the wrong moment, before she had fully gained her composure. In the day since she had been told of Renard’s death, she had found little time to be alone. She was sure Mrs Holland knew that something was wrong, and she did not wish to expose herself to more questions. The groom made to turn, and Joanna moved sharply away from the window.

‘Remind you of someone, does he?’ said Mrs Holland, gazing steadily at Joanna’s reddened eyes. The light from the window made the downward turn of her mouth seem harsher and deeper than Joanna recalled.

‘No,’ said Joanna. She managed to summon up a haughty glare. ‘I’d best go to Mrs Chichester, if you’ll excuse me.’

The housekeeper said nothing; she stayed where she was, and Joanna felt her gaze following her as she descended the stairs.

‘I am sorry to disturb you, madame,’ said Grisa, leaning on the doorframe and examining his fingernails. ‘Bright Hemmings wishes to speak to you. I told him to leave, but he would not go.’

Mary was by the fire, leaning forwards, her hat on the chair beside her. When she looked at the clock she realized she had returned from the church two hours since, and had not moved. ‘I will come down,’ she said. ‘Do not let him up here.’

As she walked down the stairs she tried to summon some kindness for her visitor. Poor Bright, who lived in the perpetual shadow of his own absurdity. Feeling so out of place herself, she had sympathy for him. His story had been repeated so often that it was the stuff of local legend. A shop sign had fallen on his mother when he was a child, and the shock of her sudden death had altered Bright’s mind, it was believed, making him impervious to good sense. It was the first thing one thought of when you looked at him: a falling shop sign, on a street of swinging shop signs. Or pigs. He had long borne a partiality for Mary, not because she had shown him any particular favour, but simply because she was not harsh, unlike most of the others who spoke to him.

Bright was waiting in the shop, looking at one of the shelves of silver with attentive interest, as though he might be tempted to buy a piece. He even placed one hand on the glass in front of a salt cellar, causing Grisa to clear his throat severely. Grisa stood near him, clearly agitated at the idea that one of his customers might see the visitor. When Bright addressed a remark to him he gave a one-word answer into which he injected as much contempt as possible, his eyes darting to the door and back again.

By the look of him, Bright was dressed in borrowed clothes: tight breeches, a yellow and blue striped waistcoat, and with a grubby cravat tied in a large bow beneath his mud-stained greatcoat.

As he turned to Mary, with a self-important toss of his head, she found her compassion for him evaporating. It was all very well being patient from a distance, but he had the gift of converting sympathy to irritation. For, surely, she thought, as he executed an exaggerated bow, he would always have had that ridiculous cowlick of a wig, no matter what had happened to his mother? Always that face with its currents of cunning, his expression infused with the belief that he was cleverer and more dignified than everyone else? Faced with him, one was inclined to think he might have made up the story about the shop sign.

‘Madam,’ said Bright. ‘My honourable compliments and condolences.’ He bowed again.

‘What is it, Mr Hemmings? Pray hurry,’ said Mary, thinking that he had never dared enter the shop when Pierre lived.

‘If I may trespass on your time for a brief five minutes. May I be honoured with a private interview?’ said Bright, as though continuing on a course he had set for himself, to which Mary had become an irritating obstacle.

‘No, not now,’ she said, and saw Grisa shaking his head, his eyes directed out of the window at the street.

‘At a future time, madam, you may be grateful for the addresses I have come to pay to you,’ Bright said. He gave her a ghastly smile. ‘For I come to offer you protection from a dark world. But I see you are being shy due to the delicacy of the situation, and the public nature of our meeting.’

Mary looked around her. At Grisa, his hands clasped behind his back, his eyes fixed on Bond Street and the people passing the windows. On the shelves of silver, each piece reflecting cold light. On the counter, where rings and brooches glittered. At Bright, his face full of misplaced confidence, as though he anticipated a quick sale. I am here to be bought and sold, she thought. No matter how I dress it up, that is all there is.

‘Go,’ she said. Her mouth was dry. ‘There are no pigs for you here.’

She looked at Grisa, who sniggered at the mention of livestock. He walked towards Bright, hands up, herding him backwards towards the door, not caring when Bright stumbled and almost fell, cursing them as he went out on to the street.

Mary went back up to her parlour, but directly heard a commotion on the street outside. When she looked out of the window she could see Bright standing there, but there were others too; even Ellen was out on the street, her arms folded across her chest in the cold. Mary saw her glance up at the parlour window.

‘What is going on?’ she said to Grisa a minute later, breathless from running down the stairs.

‘You are not to go out there,’ he said.

She pushed past him and went out of the door of the shop. The crowd were looking in the direction of Dr Taylor’s house.

‘What are they doing?’ she heard a woman say.

‘It’s that table,’ said another. ‘They couldn’t get the blood off.’

‘She’s having it burnt,’ said another. ‘You can hardly blame her. There’s something bad about this business; why would a bloodstain not shift?’

Ellen had noticed her mistress, but as she approached, her eyes full of alarm, Mary put her hand up warningly. She knew now what they meant: Pierre had lain on Mrs Taylor’s kitchen table, where they had carried him on the night of his death. Many times she had imagined the gore pooled, so dark it was almost black, as it seeped into the wood; of the poor kitchen maid who would have to try and scrub it away; of Pierre, left there as though he was a piece of meat on a slab.

Two men came out, lugging the table into the full glare of the day. Bright Hemmings pointed and laughed at them. Mrs Taylor was nowhere to be seen. As the table emerged, Mary thought she could see the evidence of death upon it, and she put her hand to her mouth, a small cry escaping. Bright turned, and she saw his smile fade at the sight of her.

She couldn’t move; she put her hands over her eyes, but she had already seen it, and now could not erase it from her memory. The sickening, dark stain, the physical reality of Pierre’s murder, and she could only think that the bloodstain would smell of him. Her legs buckled as sweat-beaded nausea rose in her. She felt hands on her shoulders: two strong, capable hands, and she could not look up to see who it was that guided her. Head down, she allowed herself to be supported, back into the safety of the shop. She heard the bell above her head with relief, smelt the beeswax: no meat, no blood. Just the shop; never had she thought of it with such relief. Her head was pounding; unthinking, she rested her forehead on the glass of the counter.

‘That wasn’t for her to see.’ It was a man’s voice. His alcohol-tinged breath sank through the air.