Desolation Island by Patrick O’Brian Read Free Book Online Page B

market in the general direction of Hyde Park Corner and took half a dozen turns round St James's Square. At this end of the town his clothes excited no attention, except from the women who shared the streets with him, a great number of them, in arcades, shop doorways, and porticoes, some of them fierce, angry, scornful creatures with their bosoms laid out, the caterers to special tastes, others so young - mere slips - that it was a wonder they should find customers, even in so huge a city. One assured him she would give him a good breakfast, with sausages, if he came with her; and although he civilly declined her offer on the grounds that be was going to see his sweetheart, the idea of food so spurred his mind that he walked into one of the alleys haunted by footmen behind St James's Street and bought a mutton-pie of an old lady with a glowing brazier, to eat in his hand as he walked. He moved on, carrying it, until he reached Almack's, where they were giving a ball: here he paused in the little crowd that was watching the carriages arrive. He took a bite or two, but his appetite, a purely theoretical appetite, was gone. He offered the pie to a tall black dog that belonged to a neighbouring club and that was watching by his side: the dog sniffed it, looked up into his face with an embarrassed air, licked its lips, and turned away. A dwarfish boy said, 'I'll eat it for you, governor, if you like.'
    'May it profit you,' said Stephen, walking off. Through to the Green Park, an expanse lit faintly by the horned moon in which couples could vaguely be seen, and single, waiting figures among the nearer trees. Stephen was not ordinarily a timid man, but the park had seen many murders recently, and tonight he had a greater value for his life than usual: in fact his heart, though admonished and kept down by experience on the one side and prudence (or superstition) on the other, was beating like a boy's. He cut up to Piccadilly and walked down the hill to Clarges Street.
    Number seven was a large house let out in apartments, with a porter common to them all; so when he knocked at the door it opened. 'Is Mrs Villiers at home?' he asked in a harsh, formal tone that betrayed the most eager expectation.
    'Mrs Villiers? No, sir. She don't live here any more,' said the porter in an absolute, decided, rejecting voice; and he made as though to close the door.
    'In that case,' said Stephen, walking quickly in, 'I wish to see the lady of the house.'
    The lady of the house was very willing to see him - she had indeed been hovering behind a curtained glass door in the hall, peering through - but she was by no means so inclined to give him any information. She knew nothing about it: such a thing had never happened in her house before: no such person as a Bow Street officer had ever crossed its threshold. She had always taken the greatest pains to ensure that all the inmates of the house were above suspicion, and she had never countenanced the least irregularity. The whole neighbourhood, the whole congregation of St James's, all the tradesmen, could testify that Mrs Moon had never allowed the least irregularity. In the following discourse, which dealt with the difficulties of maintaining the highest reputation, it seemed that there was some question of unpaid bills: Stephen said that any inadvertence in this respect would be remedied directly, and that he would take it upon himself to look into any unsettled account. He was Mrs Villiers' medical adviser -naming himself - and the medical adviser to several members of her family: he was perfectly authorized to do so.
    'Ey'r Maturin!' cried Mrs Moon. 'There is a letter for a gentlemen of that name. I will fetch it.' She brought a single sheet, folded, sealed, and addressed in that well-known hand, together with a number of bills from her desk, tied in a roll with a piece of ribbon. Stephen put the letter into his pocket and looked at the accounts: he had never suspected Diana of moderation, had never