The Scent of Death by Andrew Taylor Read Free Book Online Page A

gifts, Mrs Wintour became quite animated.
    ‘I’m sure my son will enjoy the sermons too, when he comes home,’ she said in a voice like rustling paper. ‘His attention has always been turned towards spiritual matters – even as a little boy. I remember when we went to church: he listened so attentively to the sermons.’
    Mrs Arabella wiped her fingers, inky from the fresh newsprint, on her handkerchief. She thanked me for the gifts but said she would not examine the lace until her hands were clean.
    Mrs Wintour patted the sofa on which she sat. ‘Come and tell me how dear Mr Rampton does, Mr Savill. It must be nearly twenty years since we saw him. And you are married to his niece, Miss Augusta, I hear?’
    ‘Mr Rampton does very well, thank you, ma’am. Now he is under secretary of the American Department, Lord George Germain entrusts a great deal of business to him.’
    ‘And you, sir? My husband tells me that Mr Rampton speaks most highly of you.’
    ‘He is kindness itself, ma’am.’ This was not entirely true. Mr Rampton had opposed Augusta’s marriage to me, a mere junior clerk.
    ‘And do you have the consolation of children? You must pardon an old lady’s curiosity, Mr Savill.’
    ‘A daughter, ma’am – Elizabeth.’
    ‘How fortunate you are. I always wished for a daughter. When my son comes home, he and Bella will have one, possibly two. It will be as good as having them myself.’ She smiled at me. ‘It will be delightful, will it not? I dare say they will live at Mount George for much of the year – the air is healthier for children.’
    The mention of Lizzie reminded me of the crying child I had heard – or thought I had heard – as I was going to sleep. I was about to ask whether there was a child in the house when the conversation shifted direction and the old lady began to ask me about which London clergymen were at present esteemed for their preaching.
    ‘Mama,’ Mrs Arabella said. ‘You should not plague Mr Savill with questions. I am sure he is weary.’
    Mrs Wintour looked bewildered. ‘Ah – yes – do forgive me, Mr Savill, I run on, sometimes. My son tells me I must have been born chattering. Have you met my son John, sir?’
    ‘I’ve not had that pleasure, ma’am.’
    ‘You will meet him soon, I’m sure. He will make everything right when he comes home, and then I shall have my little granddaughters.’
    ‘You are tired, ma’am,’ said Mrs Arabella, rising from her chair. ‘Should you not rest for a while? I shall ring the bell for Miriam.’
    Miriam came, and the old woman rose obediently and hobbled out of the room, clinging with two thin hands to the servant’s arm. The maid looked without hesitation to Mrs Arabella for her orders, though in this case few words passed between them, only a look of intelligence. This situation, I thought, had happened before, and more than once.
    Mrs Arabella sat down again. ‘The Judge tells me that Mr Pickett has been found dead in Canvas Town. Was he murdered?’
    That was plain-speaking indeed. ‘He is certainly dead, ma’am, and in all probability murdered.’ I tried not to think of the fly settling on the ragged wound in Pickett’s neck.
    ‘What was the motive?’
    ‘The affair is still a mystery. I apprehend that Major Marryot thinks Mr Pickett was a gambling man, and that may have had something to do with it. But I hope I do not distress you. I understand he was an acquaintance.’
    ‘I did not know him at all well, sir. Besides, we have grown used to hearing of horrors.’
    ‘I understand he has a sister. Do you know anything of her?’
    ‘No. I was not aware he had any family at all. I met him only once before and very briefly. I think he had had a few dealings with my father, but purely in the way of business.’
    She said nothing further on the subject. A silence fell, and it was not altogether comfortable.
    ‘I – I understand your husband, madam, is expected home?’ I said. ‘Do you know when he will