Praise for The Scent of Death
Andrew Taylor has been quietly producing superb historical fiction since long before Hilary Mantels Man Booker wins bestowed literary respectability on the genre He has the first-rate historians ability to channel the spirit of his period and let it speak for itself, combined with a masterly command of plotting and pace. His hairs-breadth-escape set pieces are superb
Daily Telegraph
Andrew Taylors epic historical detective novel is an absorbing and harrowing tale of the last part of America under British rule The 18th century voice is beautifully achieved: Taylor is as good at this period as C J Sansom is at Tudor England, and like him pulls off novels that work both as literary fiction and detective stories The mud, blood, corruption and cruelty of early Manhattan ratchet up the suspense
Independent
The narrative unfolds with a leisurely confidence that allows unhurried opportunities for character and motivation to emerge. As the plot satisfyingly thickens to take in profiteering, and love and sex across the racial divide, Taylor once again shows how skilful a historical novelist he is
Sunday Times
Andrew Taylor is an expert in the realm of murder and mystery fiction The Scent of Death is a triumph of genre plotting: a detective story, and a piece of period writing that excites and surprises in equal measure Taylor recognizes that successful page-turners come from the author removing himself from view and simply concentrating on telling a story that keeps readers interested to the end. In this respect, The Scent of Death undoubtedly and thrillingly succeeds
Spectator
Andrew Taylors historical crime fiction is always an event. Ten years ago The American Boy, a gothic tale of the young Edgar Allan Poe in Regency England, deservedly won him a second CWA Historical Dagger. The Anatomy of Ghosts, from 2010, was both rambunctious and chilling, stripping away the demure veneer of Cambridge to reveal a wilder, and weirder, underside. Now he turns to Manhattan, although not as we know it
Guardian
Taylor has emerged as an historical novelist with a rare gift for mood and atmosphere especially the 18th century
i
Andrew Taylor is one of the most imaginative historical mystery novelists writing today. Expect this to appear on a lot of Best Of 2013 lists
Globe and Mail
ANDREW TAYLOR
The Scent of Death
Copyright
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the authors imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
Harper
An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers
1 London Bridge Street,
London SE1 9GF
www.harpercollins.co.uk
First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 2013
Copyright © Andrew Taylor 2013
Prelims map credit © Nicolette Caven 2013
Cover layout © HarperCollinsPublishers 2013
Cover photographs © Roy Bishop / Arcangel Images (iron gate); Jill Battaglia / Arcangel Images (figure); Shutterstock (house)
Designed by www.emma-rogers.com
Andrew Taylor asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.
Source ISBN: 9780007213535
Ebook Edition © OCTOBER 2014 ISBN: 9780007564644
Version: 2015-07-20
To Will with love
Table of Contents
Praise for The Scent of Death
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Map
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Chapter Forty-Three
Chapter Forty-Four
Chapter Forty-Five
Chapter Forty-Six
Chapter Forty-Seven
Chapter Forty-Eight
Chapter Forty-Nine
Chapter Fifty
Chapter Fifty-One
Chapter Fifty-Two
Chapter Fifty-Three
Chapter Fifty-Four
Chapter Fifty-Five
Chapter Fifty-Six
Chapter Fifty-Seven
Chapter Fifty-Eight
Chapter Fifty-Nine
Chapter Sixty
Chapter Sixty-One
Chapter Sixty-Two
Chapter Sixty-Three
Chapter Sixty-Four
Chapter Sixty-Five
Chapter Sixty-Six
Chapter Sixty-Seven
Chapter Sixty-Eight
Chapter Sixty-Nine
Chapter Seventy
Chapter Seventy-One
Chapter Seventy-Two
Chapter Seventy-Three
Chapter Seventy-Four
Chapter Seventy-Five
Chapter Seventy-Six
Chapter Seventy-Seven
Chapter Seventy-Eight
Chapter Seventy-Nine
Chapter Eighty
Chapter Eighty-One
Chapter Eighty-Two
Chapter Eighty-Three
Chapter Eighty-Four
Chapter Eighty-Five
Afterword
Acknowledgements
About the Author
By the same author
About the Publisher
Chapter One
This is the story of a woman and a city. I saw the city first, glimpsing it from afar as it shimmered like the new Jerusalem in the light of the setting sun. I smelled the sweetness of the land and sensed the nearness of green, growing things after the weeks on the barren ocean. We had just passed through the narrows between Long and Staten islands and come into Upper New York Bay. It was Sunday, 2 August 1778.
The following morning, Mr Noak and I came up on deck an hour or two after dawn. The city was now close at hand. In the hard light of day it lost its celestial qualities and was revealed as a paltry, provincial sort of place.
We had heard that a conflagration had broken out during the night. Nevertheless, it came as something of a shock to see the broad pall of smoke hanging over the southern end of the island, which was where the city was. The stink of burning wafted across the water. Fires smouldered among the stumps of blackened buildings. Men scurried along the wharves that lined the docks. A file of soldiers moved to the beat of an invisible drum.
Its as if the town has been sacked, I said.
Noak leaned on the rail. The Captain says it must have been set deliberately, Mr Savill. This is the second fire, you know. The other was two years ago. They blamed the rebels then, just as they do now.
Surely New York is loyal?
For some people, sir, loyalty is a commodity, Noak said. And, like any other commodity, I suppose it can be bought and sold.
Above the smoke the sky was already a hard clear blue. I borrowed a glass from a young officer who was taking the air on deck. Most of the surviving houses of the city were of brick and tile, four or five storeys and crowned with shingles painted in a variety of faded colours. Some had balconies on their roofs, and already I could make out the tiny figures of people moving about above the streets. Many buildings nearer the southern tip had steeply gabled Dutch façades, relics of the days when the town had been called New Amsterdam.
I confess I had expected a finer prospect, I said. Something more like a city.
It looked well enough before the war, sir. But looks deceive at the best of times. Believe me, there is great wealth here. The possibility of profit. And the possibility of so much more.