Andrew Taylor - The American Boy

"It does not appear to come from a gentleman's hand."

"True. But there is nothing to say that it belonged to Poe, either." Carswall tilted his palm and slid the finger into the cigar case, his face betraying no emotion other than weariness. He hobbled to the open bureau – his gout was painful that day – and slipped the case into a drawer. "Let us assume that the man who had his tooth extracted is Frant, and that in order to make the world believe he was dead, he killed Poe and mutilated the corpse. But why should he hold on to the finger he had cut from Poe's hand?"

"That I do not know, sir. Unless he was biding his time until he found a safe place to destroy it."

"No, no. He could have thrown something as small as that on the fire. Or into a cesspit. Or the river, for that matter. God damn it, we are no nearer proof, one way or the other."

I thought, but did not say aloud, that this might have been just what the man who left the satchel had intended. Nor did I mention that the finger looked oddly shrivelled and yellow. What had happened to it since it had been parted from the rest of the hand? Was there some clue in its present appearance to where it had been kept? Could one even be sure it was a forefinger?

"I am obliged to you, nonetheless." Carswall took out his watch. "There is nothing more we can do at present." Then without any change in tone he went on: "I have written to Mr Bransby and told him you will be returning tomorrow."

I bowed.

"I daresay you will be relieved to resume your normal duties. I shall make a point of saying to Mr Bransby that you have given satisfaction, and shown yourself trustworthy." Carswall pawed his watch. "I am awaited in the City. You may spend the rest of the day with Charlie."

A moment later I trailed up the stairs to the drawing room, where Pratt, the footman I disliked, had told me I would find Charlie. There was no schoolroom in the house in Margaret-street, and in any case the drawing room was warmer and more comfortable. I will not disguise the fact that as I mounted the stone treads of the staircase my heart beat a little faster at the thought of whom I might find with Charlie.

Miss Carswall looked up as I entered the room, her face breaking into a smile. She was alone, sitting by the fire with a screen to shield her face. A folded newspaper lay upon her lap.

"I beg your pardon," I said. "They told me Charlie was here."

"He will be down presently, Mr Shield. He has run up to his mama for a few moments. Pray come and wait by the fire. The cold is bitter, is it not?"

I was glad to fall in with this suggestion. I saw that she had been reading the Morning Post and my eye caught the word "murder" on the page lying open before her.

"Am I to understand that Mrs Frant has had a relapse?" I asked. "She seemed much improved when I saw her yesterday."

"I am rejoiced to say that she is much better. But she tires easily, and her physician recommends that she rest in her room during the afternoon." Miss Carswall looked directly at me – there was a frankness about her demeanour, an openness, which I found most appealing – and said: "While we are on the subject of health, you are looking rather better than I feared you would. Mrs Frant told me that you were attacked."

"It was unpleasant rather than serious."

"I suspect you make light of it." She shivered deliciously. "We are none of us safe!"

"No harm was done. Mr Harmwell beat back my assailants, and then he was kind enough to escort me home in a hackney."

Miss Carswall's smile broke out like the sun from behind clouds. "Is it possible that his motives were not entirely disinterested, sir? Bearing in mind that touching scene we witnessed in Piccadilly?"

I grinned at her. "I understand that Mrs Kerridge has been copying out receipts for Mr Harmwell's mother."

The smile turned into a giggle. "Tell that to the Marines." As she spoke, Miss Carswall moved in her chair and the hem of her skirt rose up, exposing pretty ankles and elegant calves encased in French-silk stockings. "Why, it seems unnatural for Kerridge to have a follower. She must be old enough to be my mother."

At this, she coloured and fell silent, for the remark was not the best of taste, especially from one situated as Miss Carswall was. I wondered, not for the first time, if there was more than met the eye in Harmwell's interest in Mrs Kerridge. She was better placed than most to know exactly what was going on in this family. She was Mrs Frant's maid, the only servant who remained from that lost house in Russell-square. She had also looked after Miss Carswall when she had lived with her cousin for upward of two years while Mr Frant was in Canada, and of course she had known Charlie since he was a baby. The three of them held her in great affection, and often confided in her. On account of this, perhaps, Mrs Kerridge wielded an influence over the other servants out of proportion to her official standing among them.

"Mr Carswall tells me you are soon to remove to the country," I said, to break the silence before it grew awkward.

"We are indeed. Papa is so provoking. He talks of unnecessary expense, which is nonsense. But he will not listen to reason." She spoke these words in a self-mocking manner, which converted them from a criticism of her father to a commentary on her own shortcomings.

"You prefer the town, I think, miss?"

"Oh, indeed. I remember how delightful it was when I first came to live with Sophie in Russell-square, and suddenly Bath itself seemed no more interesting than a village. I know Town is practically empty now, and it will be even emptier after Christmas. But even in that condition, it is far more agreeable to me than the vacant prospects and unpolished inhabitants of the countryside. I – I shall miss my friends, too. In London, one knows so many people that one may to a large extent choose with whom one associates. But it is quite different at Monkshill. We have a very limited acquaintance." She paused a moment and then added, with peculiar emphasis: "Yes, I shall miss certain friends very much."

She had been gazing at the paper on her lap, but when she spoke those last few words, she raised her face to mine, which gave what she said a particular force, and made it difficult not to place a particular construction upon the words. Miss Carswall smiled at me and was about to say something else. But at this interesting moment, the door of the drawing room flew open and Charlie burst in on us.

"Cousin Flora!" he cried. "Mama says I do not have to go back to school!"

I returned to Stoke Newington on Thursday, the 9th December. As the month progressed, the weather grew worse. The cold and the lengthening nights were perfectly in tune with my gloomy spirits. Sometimes I slipped into a fit of wild despair. When my mind was unoccupied, two faces rushed to fill the vacancy, those of Mrs Frant and Miss Carswall. I was amazed by my own folly: if it were ludicrous to pine for one lady so far removed from my own sphere of society, then how much more absurd to pine for two? Yet however much I brought philosophy to my aid, I could not expel those two lovely images from my thoughts.

"You are out of sorts, Tom," said Edward Dansey one evening as we sat over the dying fire.

"It is merely a fit of the dumps. I beg your pardon – I do not wish to be a plague."

"One's spirits have their seasons, just as the weather has. What is it you are reading?"

I passed the book to him.

"The Carmina of Catullus?" He held the book up to the candle and turned over the pages. "Charming, charming," he murmured. "All the passion of youth is here, and all its folly. I should not let Mr Bransby see you reading it, however."

"I am re-reading the poems not for their matter but for their metre," I said.