Читать книгу Richard and Judy Bookclub - 3 Bestsellers in 1: The American Boy, The Savage Garden, The Righteous Men - Andrew Taylor, Andrew Taylor - Страница 61

As to time, Mrs Frant was as good as her word. Hooded and cloaked, with a pair of pattens in her hand, she met me in the passage. We passed no one as we threaded our way across the upper floors of the house to the flight of stairs that descended to the lobby and side door. Impatient to be gone, she lead the way down to the dingy hall, which was lit by a solitary lamp.

The door was bolted, not locked. It opened on to a narrow alley on the other side of the house from the lane with the tavern. Mrs Frant slipped on her pattens and took my arm. We picked our way through the gloom to the lights of Westgate-street.

People were still abroad. The paved footways on either side were covered with a feathery layer of snow; the cobbles of the pitching were coated with rutted, partly frozen slush. We saw no one resembling Mrs Johnson in either direction.

“Let us walk up towards the crossroads,” Mrs Frant suggested. “If she did not call in at the house, we must assume she went in that direction.”

So we set off, looking into the dark mouths of doorways and alleys, glancing into brightly lit taprooms, examining every passer-by. We did not speak. The hood of Mrs Frant’s cloak was across her face, so nothing was visible of her except a pair of eyes. I feared she might fall, for there were patches of black ice concealed beneath the powdering of snow. I listened anxiously to the sound of her pattens clinking and scraping on the pavement, ready to hold her more tightly if she should slip.

We passed St Nicholas’s Church. A few yards beyond was another of the city’s principal inns, the King’s Head on the corner of Three Cocks-lane. Two servants loitered in the doorway, no doubt waiting to light their masters home. They were smoking and, despite the cold, had the air of men who were at their leisure. I asked if they had seen a lady in the last quarter of an hour, not in the best of health, perhaps, and wearing a long cloak.

“Hear that, Joe? The gent here’s looking for a lady.” He poked the stem of his pipe towards Mrs Frant, waiting some yards away with her back to us. “Another lady.”

Joe chuckled. “Ain’t we all? Could be in luck. Plenty of ladies tonight. If you ain’t too particular.”

I felt in my pocket and produced a shilling. “A lady in a cloak. She came up from the lane beyond Fendall House. You know where I mean?” The shilling was on the palm of my hand and I let the light fall on it from the lantern beside the door. “She is not well – we are looking for her.”

Joe scooped the shilling from my hand. “Aye, sir. There was a skirt come up from there – ill, you say? I’d say she was lushy. Slipped on some ice, fell on her arse in the gutter, and let fly like a trooper.”

“Which way did she go?”

“They went up Westgate.”

“They?” said Mrs Frant just behind me. “She was not alone?”

“No, ma’am.” Joe studied her and would have come closer if I had not taken a step forward to prevent him. “A gent come running up from behind when she fell down, and he helped her up and gave her his arm.”

“What did he look like?”

“I don’t know. Big fellow. Well set-up. I expect you’d know him, sir, eh? I expect he’s one of her friends as well.”

There was no mistaking the impudence, though it was phrased in such a way that there was no objecting to it either. The shilling had not been enough to buy respect as well as information.

Mrs Frant took my arm again and we hurried down the street which sloped gently upwards to the ancient crossroads at the centre of the city. A burst of ribald laughter followed us.

“Loathsome men,” she murmured.

“Not loathsome,” I said. “Merely ordinary.”

I felt her hand tighten on my arm but she said no more. I knew she was upset. Joe and his fellow servants might indeed be ordinary men, but they were not ordinary men of the type with which she was familiar. It shocked her to discover that Mrs Johnson had sunk to become a figure of fun, a drunken woman to be ridiculed when she fell on the street rather than helped to her feet; a woman whose morals were perhaps suspect in all matters – at least in the opinion of those ordinary men.

The snowflakes still floated silently down from the great darkness of the sky, though less urgently than before. It was as cold as charity. We hurried onwards as fast as we dared. We reached the crossroads, and lingered for a moment on the corner by the Tolsey, the building where the city’s business was transacted.

“What shall we do?” Mrs Frant said. “She might be anywhere. Should we go on?”

“But in which direction?”

“I fear for her safety.”

“At least she is not alone.”

“Some companions may prove worse than solitude.”

“I think we should retrace our steps,” I said. “Is it not more likely that they turned into one of the alleys we passed? Or went into one of the inns or alehouses?”

Mrs Frant shivered. “We cannot abandon her. We must try something. Anything might have happened to her. Should we not find a constable?”

“If we cannot find her, then we must.”

“I shudder to think of the scandal.”

“Listen,” I said.

Someone close at hand was crying quietly. Mrs Frant’s hand tightened its grip on my arm. Suddenly, a man burst out of a doorway on the other side of Westgate-street. He ran across the road, slipping on the cobbles, and into a lane below the Fleece. The sobbing continued. Mrs Frant tugged her arm, trying to free it from my grasp, but I would not let her.

“Wait,” I said. “Let me investigate first.”

“We shall go together,” she said, and I knew that nothing short of brute force would change her mind.

We moved cautiously across the road. The sobbing came from outside an old house used as a bank. We drew nearer. The storeys above projected into the street, and there was enough light to read below the first-floor windows the words

COUNTY FIRE OFFICE

PROVIDENT LIFE OFFICE

“Is anyone there?” Mrs Frant said.

The crying stopped. My eyes made out a patch of deeper darkness among the shadows along the base of the bank’s frontage. I heard a whimper.

“Mrs Johnson?” I said. “Is that you, ma’am?”

“Let me alone, damn you.” Mrs Johnson’s voice was so thick and weary that it was barely recognisable. “Let me die.”

Mrs Frant tore her arm away from mine and knelt beside the unfortunate woman, who lay curled on her side in the bank’s doorway, with flecks of snow on her mantle. “Mrs Johnson, we are come to find you.”

“I do not wish to be found. I wish to stay here.”

“Indeed you shall not. You will catch your death of cold. Are you hurt?”

Mrs Johnson did not answer.

“Come, ma’am, Mr Shield is here too, and you may lean on my arm on one side and his on the other.”

“Let me alone,” Mrs Johnson murmured, but this time there was more habit than conviction in her tone.

“No, of course we shall not,” said Mrs Frant briskly, as though Mrs Johnson were a sick and foolish child. “Lady Ruispidge would worry, so would we all, and that would never do. Let me help you up.”

Between us, Mrs Frant and I raised Mrs Johnson and propped her against the door. Her head lolled against my arm and she muttered something I could not distinguish. Mingling with the unpleasant odours of the street was the sharp tang of brandy.

“Who was the man who ran away?” Mrs Frant said.

“I don’t know,” Mrs Johnson said. “What man?” She jabbed her elbow in my side with unexpected force. “This man? Who are you?”

“My name is Shield, ma’am. I –”

“Oh, yes – the damned tutor.” The voice was slurred but the malignancy as clear as a curse. “You’re no good. No, no, no.”

“You will be more comfortable directly,” Mrs Frant said, ignoring this. “In any case, I did not mean Mr Shield. I meant the man who ran away as we came up to you. Who was he?”

Mrs Johnson did not reply for a moment. Then: “What man? There was no man. No, no, you must be mistaken. Oh, dear God, I feel so ill. So terribly ill.”

She began to weep all the harder. A moment later, she turned to retching, then gave a great groan and vomited. I sprang back just in time to prevent her fouling my greatcoat.

“We must get her to Fendall House,” I said. “A pair of men might carry her upon a door, if we cannot find a cart or a sedan chair.”

“No,” Mrs Frant said. “That would not do. She – she is too ill to be seen like this. Besides, moderate exercise might be beneficial. I believe that if we supported her –”

“Murder,” said Mrs Johnson quietly. “No, no.”

“What is it, ma’am?” Mrs Frant cried. “What do you mean?”

“What – was I dreaming?” Mrs Johnson tried to stand up. “Oh, pray take me home, Mrs Frant. I do not feel at all the thing.”

Mrs Frant pulled and I lifted; and between us we brought Mrs Johnson to her feet. For a moment she swayed to and fro. But her knees held out and she remained upright, clinging to our arms.

“You felt faint,” Mrs Frant said firmly. “That is what we shall say if we encounter anyone on our way back. You felt faint, and no doubt that is why you are not at the ball. I suggested to you that fresh air might be the best medicine, and Mr Shield was obliging enough to escort us while we took a turn up and down the street. Your stomach is upset, and there is the possibility of an inflammation of the bowels.”

Mrs Johnson groaned.

“Do you understand?” Mrs Frant said. “If we meet anyone, pray remain silent. Mr Shield or I will say whatever needs to be said.”

I own that Mrs Frant’s behaviour both surprised and impressed me. I had not anticipated such firmness of character, such presence of mind in a crisis. We made our way slowly, painfully, back to Fendall House. Mrs Johnson leaned heavily on our arms but did not fall. Gradually the fresh air and the motion revived her slightly, and she took more of her weight herself. I glanced down at her as we came into a circle of lamplight, and saw her haggard face, her disordered hair, and, beneath the stained cloak, a bedraggled ball dress. But she had not changed her shoes: in other words, she had never reached the assembly rooms at the Bell: which suggested that she had intended to go to the ball but something, or someone, had diverted her from her purpose.

We walked, or rather staggered, in silence for most of the way, our feet slithering on cobbles made triply treacherous by their covering of snow and by patches of ice. Fortunately the servants were no longer idling outside the King’s Head so we were spared their catcalls. The only people abroad seemed as drunk as Mrs Johnson. They avoided us, and we avoided them. The snowflakes fell even more thickly than before, which was a blessing because the passers-by kept their faces sheltered from the weather.

At Fendall House, we faced another difficulty, that of avoiding servants. We guided our unstable burden into the tunnel-like alley. The little door was still unbolted. The lobby was empty, though there were voices somewhere in the back of the house. On the stairs, Mrs Frant pulled, I pushed, and Mrs Johnson showed an inclination to collapse.

“You must not,” Mrs Frant hissed. “Come, ma’am, it is only a few steps more.”

“Why must I not?” wailed Mrs Johnson. “What does it matter?”

“You must go on because otherwise I will pinch you until you shriek,” Mrs Frant replied with such resolution in her voice that Mrs Johnson gathered up her skirts and fairly cantered up the remaining stairs.

The burst of energy did not last. She clung to us as we steered her through the labyrinth of passages to the front of the inn, where the Carswalls’ apartments were situated. She moaned almost continuously, a low, mournful drone strangely wearing on the nerves. At one point she muttered, “I wish I was dead. I wish I was dead.”

“We will all be dead soon enough,” Mrs Frant told her.

“Cold, unfeeling woman!” whispered Mrs Johnson. “No wonder –”

“In the meantime, however,” Mrs Frant interrupted, “I am persuaded you will feel much better in the morning.”

We were fortunate to meet no one. At last we attained our own part of the house. Lamps burned in the passage, but when we opened the door of the chamber where Mrs Johnson was to sleep, we found the room beyond lit only by a sullen orange glow from the fire. I helped Mrs Frant lower Mrs Johnson on to the bed and went in search of candles. When I returned a moment later, I found Mrs Johnson lying flat on her back, snoring quietly, still in her sodden ballroom finery.

“Would you be so good as to attend to the fire, Mr Shield?” Mrs Frant said. “Mrs Johnson is very cold.”

So indeed was I. I jabbed the fire with a poker, added a few more coals, and soon there was a respectable blaze in the grate. A moment later, Mrs Frant joined me, and we stood there by the fire, warming our hands. A few yards away behind us, the air pumped noisily in and out of Mrs Johnson’s lungs. I glanced at Mrs Frant, whose cheeks looked flushed in the firelight.

“Should you like me to fetch a doctor, ma’am?”

“I think not.” She turned and looked at me. “Her clothes must be changed, but then the best medicine for her condition is rest and warmth. I know I need not ask you to be discreet.”

I inclined my head.

“We were fortunate not to encounter anyone.” She sat down on the chair by the fire and passed her hand across her forehead. “But we are not safe yet.”

“Has Lady Ruispidge sent a maid for her?”

“I doubt it. If only Kerridge were here.”

“Then we must ring for Miss Carswall’s maid.”

“There is a risk of scandal –” Mrs Frant began.

“There will be a worse risk of scandal if she is not made comfortable. We have to trust someone on Mrs Johnson’s behalf, do we not? She cannot be found like this, ma’am, and you cannot shut yourself up here with her without arousing comment. We should tell the maid that Mrs Johnson is indisposed, and leave it at that.”

“You are in the right of it. I – I might mention to her – the maid, that is – that earlier in the evening Mrs Johnson attempted to revive herself with a glass of brandy.”

“That will be wise.”

Our eyes met. A spark of amusement leapt between us.

“Let us say you went for a stroll,” she continued, “and you chanced to meet her at the Bell, and offered to escort her back. She felt faint, and needed air. You brought her back and came in with her by the side door, to avoid troubling the servants.”

“It will serve, ma’am. And the Ruispidges?”

“I shall write to Lady Ruispidge directly.”

“If you wish, I will deliver your note to their lodgings myself. They will naturally be anxious.”

I knew we understood each other perfectly. Leaving Mrs Frant to minister to the invalid, I returned to the parlour and rang for the maid. In one respect, I was not entirely surprised by the turn the evening’s events had taken. Even in the smallest village, one sees the effect that an unhealthy dependence on liquor has on women as well as men. If a woman might drink in the purlieus of the Strand or in Seven Dials, so too might her more affluent sister in Belgrave-square or indeed Clearland-court. I had noted Mrs Johnson’s high colour from the first, and marked a slurring in her speech; and she was irritable with servants for no good reason.

But there remained much that was puzzling. Why had Mrs Johnson left the Ruispidges so early, though by her dress she had clearly intended to accompany them to the ball? Why had she found it necessary to drink a great deal in a very short time? Why had she left the warmth and safety of the Bell or the Ruispidges’ lodgings? Above all, was her extraordinary behaviour connected with the man who had run away as Mrs Frant and I approached the corner where she lay? If so, who was the stranger?

At last the maid came, her cap awry, her pert face flushed and liquor on her breath. I told her that Mrs Johnson was unwell, that Mrs Frant was at present with her and that she was to take her place and settle Mrs Johnson for the night. I sweetened this intelligence with half a crown I could ill afford, after which the woman’s expression softened.

I led her into the passage, where I tapped on Mrs Johnson’s door. As the maid slipped inside, Mrs Frant handed me a pencilled note for Lady Ruispidge. A moment later I left the house by the side door and walked briskly up Westgate-street to the Cross. The music from the Bell was loud and clear in the night air, and there was a press of people and carriages outside the inn.

The Ruispidges’ lodgings were in a fine, ashlar-fronted mansion at the far end of Eastgate-street. I explained my errand and asked for Lady Ruispidge’s maid. She positively ran into the hall.

“Thank God you’re come, sir,” she said in a rush, her face as shiny as a polished apple. “Is Mrs Johnson safe? I’ve been fretting about her, not knowing what to do for the best.”

Relief made the woman garrulous, and she needed little encouragement to tell her story. Mrs Johnson’s lack of consideration gave her narrative the spice of malice. A boy had brought a letter for Mrs Johnson soon after the party’s arrival in Gloucester, and its contents had depressed her spirits. The maid hinted that it had probably been a bill, and also that such occurrences were not uncommon in Mrs Johnson’s life. She had dashed off a reply, which the boy had taken, and had been in the sullens thereafter.

The party from Clearland-court had dined together before the ball. Mrs Johnson complained of tiredness and the headache and decided to rest on the sofa, which did not please the servants, who had hoped for a few hours to themselves. The Ruispidges had gone to the Bell without her, on the understanding that Mrs Johnson would join them later. Her luggage had already been sent down to Fendall House.

An hour later, a servant of the house had gone to make up the fire and found her gone. He had not thought to mention the circumstance, assuming she had followed the others to the Bell. Lady Ruispidge’s maid had not discovered Mrs Johnson’s disappearance until twenty minutes before my arrival.