As I waited, three drops of ink fell from the pen and blotted the paper. I swore, crumpled up the sheet and tossed it into the empty fireplace. I set down the pen, propped my head on my hands and stared at the view.
The writing table was drawn up to the rooms single window, which looked out on a small garden laid out with bushes and gravelled walks in the old style. To the left was a service yard with a line of outbuildings. On the right, beyond a high wall, was another street, for Judge Wintours house stood at an intersection.
At the bottom of the garden, in the angle where the rear wall met the long side wall, was a square pavilion built of red bricks, with the quoins and architraves dressed with stone. Beside it was a narrow gate to the street. The little building was raised above the road. A flight of shallow steps led up to a glazed door on the side facing the house, and there was a tall window on at least two of the other sides. It was some sort of summerhouse, I thought, a species of gazebo or belvedere. Lizzie would love to play house there. I would describe it to her in my next letter.
I took up the pen again.
I have not yet seen much of the house where I am to lodge for I did not arrive here until yesterday evening. It is in Warren Street, not far from Kings College. Judge Wintour was most welcoming and he was gratified to have intelligence of your Uncle Rampton, for whom he entertains the most cordial regard. Pray believe me to be your most devoted servant in all things, ES.
I rang the bell. A young manservant named Abraham, little more than a boy, showed me down to the parlour where the table was set for breakfast. He said that Mrs Wintour rarely rose before midday, and that the Judge and Mrs Arabella were still in their rooms.
While I was eating, there was a double knock on the street door. Abraham returned to say that a gentleman had called to see me.
Me? Is it Mr Townley?
No, your honour. A Mr Noak.
Very well. You had better ask him to step in.
Noak bowed from the doorway. Your servant, sir. I apologize for calling on you so early. I fear necessity has no manners.
I had a sudden, uncomfortable memory of vomiting over a pewter platter containing Mr Noaks dinner, not a fortnight ago. My dear sir, in that case necessity is a welcome guest. Pray join me have you breakfasted?
Noak perched on the edge of a chair. He said he had already had breakfast but would be glad of a cup of coffee.
I know you must be much engaged at present, he said. But I did not know whom to turn to.
I guessed that Noak wanted money. People always wanted money. Townley had been right, when he talked at dinner of Congresss lack of gold, its fatal weakness: None of us can do without money, eh?
so any form of employment commensurate with my skills and small talents, sir.
What? I said. I beg your pardon, I did not quite catch what you said before that.
I said that unfortunately the position I had been invited to fill no longer exists, sir. The gentleman I was to work for has died, and his son has wound up the business. There it is I have come all this way for nothing, and now I am in want of a situation.
I am sorry to hear it. But Im not sure what I can do to help except offer you another cup of coffee.
Noak shook his head. May I hope for your good offices? You will soon, Im sure, have an extensive acquaintance here. If you should come across a gentleman who is in want of a clerk with, I may say, the very highest character from his previous employer in London, as well as considerable experience in the management of affairs both in America and in London then I beg that you might mention my name.
Nothing would give me greater pleasure, I said. But
I know, Noak interrupted. I am clutching at straws, sir. But a man in my position must clutch at something.
Of course. I liked the mans doggedness, his refusal to be cowed. Leave me your direction, sir I will send you a line if I hear of a place.
The American took out a pocket book and pencil. A line addressed to the Charing Cross Tavern will always find me.
A moment later, he pushed back his chair and said abruptly that he would not trouble me any further. It was clear that asking the favour had not come easily to him, and I liked him the better for it.
After I had finished breakfast, I was passing through the hall when I heard another knock at the front door. Abraham opened it. A servant was on the step. I heard him mention my name. Abraham took a letter from him and presented it with a low bow to me. I tore it open.
Mr Savill
I have just this moment received intelligence that our body yesterday has acquired a name: a corporal on the Commandants staff says he is a Mr Roger Pickett, a gentleman newly arrived in New York, who was lodging at Widow Mullers on Beekman Street (opposite St Georges Chapel). Major Marryot suggests we meet him there as soon as is convenient. The bearer of this will conduct you to the house if you are at leisure. If not, I shall do myself the honour of waiting on you later in the day.
Yours, etc. C. Townley
Judge Wintour came down the stairs, clinging to the rail.
Mr Savill, good morning. I hope you have passed a satisfactory night. Youve breakfasted, I hear. Would you do me the kindness of sitting with me and taking another cup of coffee while I have mine? There is much I should like to ask you about the current state of affairs in London.
Nothing would give me more pleasure, sir but perhaps I might defer our conversation until later. I held up the letter. I have to go out.
The Judges eyes had strayed to the open door, where the messenger was waiting. You there, he said, his voice suddenly sharp. Youre Mr Townleys man, arent you?
Yes, your honour. He sent me for Mr Savill.
Another dreadful crime, I suppose, the Judge said. I have never known the city like this. We shall soon be murdered in our beds.
Yes, sir. And murder it is. A gentleman, too Mr Pickett.
What? The Judge clung to the newel post at the foot of the stairs. Abraham moved instantly to his other side and took his arm. Roger Pickett? But it cant be. The old man turned his faded blue eyes from the servants face to mine. Mr Pickett was in this very house, sir not a week ago.
Chapter Eight
Not a man of substance, as you see, Townley said. Not now.
The little room was at the back of the house in Beekman Street and on the third floor. The window overlooked a farriers yard. It was warm and close. I heard a roll of thunder in the distance.
Roger Picketts possessions were strewn over the bed, the table, the one chair, the chest and the floor. Mingled with them were unwashed glasses, plates, bottles, bowls and cups, many with scraps of rotting food still adhering to them. Widow Muller, the woman who kept the house, was a slattern. Besides, she had told Marryot that Pickett could not pay for the maids services.
I stood in the doorway, hat in hand. Had he lived here long?
A matter of ten days, the Major said. Time enough to turn it into a pigsty.
I stood in the doorway, hat in hand. Had he lived here long?
A matter of ten days, the Major said. Time enough to turn it into a pigsty.
Townley was delving into the papers on the table. He raised his head and smiled at me. I fancy he would have called on you, if his life had been spared.
I suppose he desired compensation like the rest of them? Marryot said, opening the chest. Dear God, you Americans are like hogs around a trough not you, of course, sir; there must be exceptions to every rule but I hold by the general principle.
No doubt Mr Pickett suffered losses, sir, Townley said coldly. Most of us have. He held up a sheet of paper. It appears he came down from Philadelphia.
After the evacuation?
Yes. But he had only been there a matter of weeks. According to this he was originally from North Carolina.
Marryot snorted. Ha! I wager his loyalty has cost him a fortune. It is curious, is it not? All our refugees claim to have been as rich as Croesus before the war. Its as if gold grew on the very trees here.
I took a step into the room. It should not be difficult to establish Mr Picketts situation, sir. Judge Wintour says he was acquainted with his daughter-in-law, Mrs Arabella.
What? Marryot said. What? No one told me that.
Townley frowned. Acquainted? How?
Only slightly, I believe. I looked from one to the other. It appears that Mrs Arabellas late father met the man when he was in North Carolina before the war.
Her father? Mr Froude? Townley rubbed his beak of a nose. You are full of surprises, sir.
Why did you not tell me earlier? Marryot said.
Ive only just found you, sir, I pointed out. And I did not hear of Mr Picketts visit to Warren Street until this morning the Judge was with me when Mr Townleys billet arrived. In any case, even if I had known about it yesterday evening, I could hardly have known its significance since the corpse had not been identified.
Marryot coloured but did not apologize. Why did Pickett call on them? And when, precisely?
Last Thursday, sir it was a morning call. He was but recently arrived and he called to renew his acquaintance with them, which I believe was very slight. He did not stay long for both the Judge and Mrs Arabella were obliged to go out.
What did she say of him? Townley asked. Mrs Arabella, I mean?
I have not seen her this morning, sir. Indeed, I met her only for a moment last night.
Townley shrugged. It dont signify we shall probably find that Pickett called on everyone he had ever scraped an acquaintance with. All the refugees do that when they first come to New York. What else can the poor devils do? It is a form of genteel beggary.
Marryot limped over to the table. What have we here?
I believe this to be a list of debts, sir. Townley handed him a sheet of paper. Nearly two hundred guineas in all. But we cannot tell who his creditors are. Theres only a single initial beside each figure. Large sums. Guineas and pounds, not shillings and pence.
A gambler, Marryot said. What did I tell you?
I slipped two fingers into my waistcoat pocket and took out the die I had found on Picketts body. It was made of ivory, not of bone or wood. A genteel die for a genteel beggar.
Townley smiled at me. You have corroboration in the palm of your hand, I fancy. Faro? Backgammon? Fortunes change hands every night in this city at a throw of the dice.
A man who gambles in Canvas Town is a fool, Marryot said.
Or desperate for money, Townley said. Plenty of men go to Canvas Town after nightfall who would not be seen there in the day. Darkness covers a multitude of sins, does it not? And do you not think that if Pickett could not pay his debts ?
Very likely but I doubt well ever know. Marryot took up another paper. Depend upon it, if we find the murderer at all, we shall find him in Canvas Town.
When did the people of the house last see Mr Pickett? I asked.
Sunday afternoon, Marryot said. He dined at the tavern over the way and came back here to change his shirt. He didnt stay long he went out at about five oclock. That was the last they saw of him. We must trace the next of kin.
We did not linger in Picketts chamber. It was stiflingly hot and so small that the three of us made it unpleasantly crowded. Marryot leafed through the rest of the papers. In a satchel, he found an unfinished and undated letter written in a sprawling, untidy hand.
My dear sister, I am safely arrived in New York from Philadelphia. My design prospers, and I have great hopes that my fortunes will soon
His design? Townley said. A gamblers new and quite infallible system, no doubt. The next turn of the cards, the next throw of the dice, and all will be changed.
No indication who the sister is, where she lives, Marryot said. Perhaps Mrs Arabella knows. He pulled out his watch. Weve done all we can here. Ill leave a guard at the door and have the room sealed up.
What other enquiries will you make now, sir? I asked.
I shall make my report to the Commandant and he will order me to do as he thinks fit. Which may very well be nothing. That would certainly be my advice. We are in the middle of a war, sir, and young men are dying every day. I cannot waste my time on every fool who pays the price for his folly.
Very true, sir, Townley put in. In any case, what can one do unless a witness comes forward? And Im afraid one does not find many public-spirited citizens in Canvas Town.
But is this your usual policy with murder, sir? I said to Marryot. You bury the dead and let the perpetrator go free?
May I remind you again, sir? We are at war. He limped to the door. The civil population cannot enjoy the same privileges and the same degree of comfort as it does in peacetime. New York looks to the army for its protection, and military objectives are of paramount importance.
Townley stared at the sloping ceiling. Still, he said, I hope that the news of Mr Picketts death does not distress the Judge or Mrs Arabella.
Once again, the blood rushed to Marryots face. No, indeed. It is fortunate that the acquaintance was slight.
There, I thought, my anger subsiding, there is the mans weak spot: Mrs Arabella Wintour.
Chapter Nine
Shortly after one oclock, there was an explosion.
It came without warning, an enormous, reverberating crash that swept over the city like an invisible tidal wave. For an instant, silence fell, an auditory equivalent to the trough following the wave.
Time seemed to elongate itself in defiance of the natural laws regulating the universe. I saw Townleys face in profile beside me, the mouth open, the nose jutting outwards, his features as rigid as if turned to stone. The horses walking and trotting down Broadway stopped moving. Two oxen pulling a wagon not ten yards away might have fallen asleep where they stood. The trees on either side of the avenue were motionless. The leg of a dog lying in the shade of a shop doorway was as stiff as a ramrod now though an instant before it had been a blur as the animal scratched its ribcage.