Andrew Taylor - The American Boy

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Winner of the CWA Historical Dagger for Fiction
The Richard and Judy Best Read of the Year (nominee)
***
'An enticing work of fiction… Taylor takes account of both a Georgian formality and a pre-Victorian laxity in social and sexual matters; he is adept at historical recreation, and allows a heady decor to work in his favour by having his mysteries come wrapped around by a creepy London fog or embedded picturesquely in a Gloucestershire snowdrift' -Patricia Craig, TLS
'Without question, the best book of 2003, and possibly the best book of the decade, is Andrew Taylor's historical masterpiece, The American Boy. A truly captivating novel, rich with the sounds, smells, and cadences of nineteenth-century England' -Manda Scott, Glasgow Herald
'Long, sumptuous, near-edible account of Regency rogues – wicked bankers, City swindlers, crooked pedagogues and ladies on the make – all joined in the pursuit of the rich, full, sometimes shady life. A plot stuffed with incident and character, with period details impeccably rendered' -Literary Review
'Taylor spins a magnificent tangential web… The book is full of sharply etched details evoking Dickensian London and is also a love story, shot through with the pain of a penniless and despised lover. This novel has the literary values which should take it to the top of the lists' -Scotland on Sunday
'It is as if Taylor has used the great master of the bizarre as both starting-and finishing-point, but in between created a period piece with its own unique voice. The result should satisfy those drawn to the fictions of the nineteenth century, or Poe, or indeed to crime writing at its most creative'-Spectator
'Andrew Taylor has flawlessly created the atmosphere of late-Regency London in The American Boy, with a cast of sharply observed characters in this dark tale of murder and embezzlement' -Susanna Yager, Sunday Telegraph
'Madness, murder, misapplied money and macabre marriages are interspersed with coffins, corpses and cancelled codicils… an enjoyable and well-constructed puzzle' -Tom Deveson, Sunday Times
***
Interweaving real and fictional elements, The American Boy is a major new literary historical crime novel in the tradition of An Instance of the Fingerpost and Possession. Edgar Allan Poe is the American boy, a child standing on the edge of mysteries. In 1819 two Americans arrive in London, and soon afterwards a bank collapses. A man is found dead and horribly mutilated on a building site. A heiress flirts with her inferiors. A poor schoolmaster struggles to understand what is happening before it destroys him and those he loves. But the truth, like the youthful Poe himself, has its origins in the new world as well as the old. The American Boy is a 21st-century novel with a 19th-century voice. It is both a multi-layered literary murder mystery and a love story, its setting ranging from the coal-scented urban jungle of late Regency London to the stark winter landscapes of rural Gloucestershire. And at its centre is the boy who does not really belong anywhere, an actor who never learns the significance of his part.

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"This is speculation, sir."

"Not entirely: and what is speculation is well supported by the evidence."

I cast my mind back over the events of the last few months. "This does not explain your interest in Mr Carswall." My voice was hoarse, and I was tired and growing angry. "Nor indeed your interest in me."

"Mr Carswall." Noak's lips tightened as he gathered his thoughts. "My inquiries both here and in North America have established beyond any doubt that until a few years ago Frant was Carswall's creature. When Frant joined Wavenhoe's as a young man, he had nothing in his favour except his birth, and even that was tainted by his father's excesses. Yet he prospered, and with enormous rapidity, because he found a patron in Carswall who was then an active partner in the bank. Carswall had sold his West Indian interests just before the abolition of the Trade and invested much of his capital in the bank. George Wavenhoe, even then, was not the man he once was, though the bank's reputation still rested on the City's knowledge of his integrity, both moral and financial. In theory, it was George Wavenhoe who sent Frant to Canada during the late war, to look after and extend the bank's interests there. In practice, however, I have no doubt that it was Carswall's decision. Frant's clerk tells me he took it for granted it was so."

"Then the question must be: was Carswall fully cognisant of Frant's activities in Canada, and of the murder of Lieutenant Saunders?"

"Precisely. My investigations have pointed the finger again and again at Carswall, but I cannot prove it. And I will have justice, Mr Shield, not revenge: within the law, always within the law." The blood had rushed to his face, and his hands clutched convulsively at the arms of his chair. He said nothing for a moment and then continued in a quieter, suddenly weary voice. "You will recall that Carswall and I were negotiating over some warehouses in Liverpool. That served a double purpose. On the one hand, it gave me a reason to prolong our stay at Monkshill-park, and on the other it allowed my lawyers to examine the records at the warehouses. These are Carswall's personal property, these warehouses: and there is no doubt that goods destined for Frant's contractors in British North America went through them, and that Carswall charged a fat fee for the privilege. But of course this does not amount to proof of collusion with Frant, or even corruption. And the matter is enormously complicated by the fact that Frant and Carswall quarrelled when Carswall withdrew his capital from the bank five years ago – after Frant had returned from Canada and become a partner at Wavenhoe's. Carswall's departure made the bank's crash almost inevitable, particularly given Frant's loose, expensive way of living. Frant tried to stave off his ruin with embezzlement, but it could not answer for ever. So he and his mistress laid their desperate plan."

"If it was not Frant who was murdered at Wellington-terrace, then who was it?"

Noak shrugged. "Does it matter? Scores of men go missing in London every day. No doubt Frant found some unfortunate about the same age and build as himself, spun him a tale, and murdered him. I suspect Mrs Johnson played Lady Macbeth's part. My impression of her was of a strong-minded, ruthless woman. She would stop at nothing to get what she wanted."

It was more than plausible. But Noak still did not know everything that I knew.

"So now we come to the present," he said, and his thin voice was hoarse with tiredness and talking. "One of the missing bills has changed hands. So we may deduce that Frant is almost certainly abroad, living under a false name and moving from place to place. But Carswall is still here, and I believe him to be as responsible for my son's death as Frant, as the man who pressed his head down in the puddle. If I cannot prove his collusion in my son's murder, then I shall find something else he has done, something he cannot so easily conceal, just as I did with Frant. In these months before his daughter's marriage, his position is particularly delicate." Noak paused, his jaws moving soundlessly and methodically as though chewing the problem to digestible pulp. "And there is yet another possibility that would make his position even more precarious: if we could show that he and Frant, far from being mortal enemies, were in fact acting in concert."

"That can hardly be – they hate each other."

Noak ignored my interruption. "Even now, it is not impossible to kill two birds with one stone. What gives me hope is the bill that was changed in Riga. I have looked into the circumstances which led to its being presented for payment, how it passed from hand to hand. It is like a chain – one end attached to the bill, each link corresponding to a person through whose hands it has passed. But the chain breaks in February. The bill plunges into obscurity until it re-emerges on the schedule that Arndale prepared for me. None of those links has anything to do with Henry Frant. But one of them, a notary in Brussels, is a known associate of Stephen Carswall's."

The reasoning was too fragile for its conclusion. I concealed a yawn and said, "The inveterate hatred between Mr Carswall and Mr Frant must surely argue against it, and there are other reasons as well."

"I shall deal with those in a moment," Noak replied. "In the meantime I shall merely observe that necessity makes strange bedfellows. It would not surprise me to find that Frant found it difficult to operate with sufficient anonymity, even abroad. The money market is not a large place, you understand: it may span the globe but it presents many of the characteristics of a village."

I shook my head. "I do not see why Carswall should be content to run such enormous risks for a man he so recently loathed." A man, I thought but did not add aloud, whose wife he desires so ardently that he will overlook her lack of dowry and the crimes of her former husband.

"Ah!" Noak sprang up, as though so bursting with vitality that exercise had become essential. "That is the beauty of it. They hate each other still, I daresay. But each has something to gain from renewing the association, and each knows the other dares not betray him. Frant needs to realise his ill-gotten capital; he must find somewhere to live in safety; he must at all costs avoid the gallows that await him in England. Carswall, on the other hand, would charge handsomely for his services in converting whatever Frant saved from the wreck of Wavenhoe's into ready money. But he has no temptation to betray Frant. In the first place, he too needs the money, rich though he is. Sir George Ruispidge is a very fine catch for his bastard daughter, but a baronet like Sir George comes at a high price. In the second place, Frant would feed him the bills one by one so Carswall would have no incentive to bilk him. And in the third place, if Frant were proved to be alive, he would stand between Carswall and what I fancy he now desires most of all – and desires with all the force of an old man's obsession."

"I must beg you to enlighten me, sir," I said coldly.

"I allude, as you must know, to Mrs Frant. As far as the law is concerned, her husband is dead and she is free to marry again. Should Mr Frant choose, however, he could reverse that state of affairs with a few strokes of a pen, written from the safety of a foreign sanctuary. No – as matters stand – the whole complex business is perfectly balanced. Perfectly but precariously."

It had long since occurred to me that Mr Carswall was not the only elderly gentleman in the grip of an obsession. I said as gently as I could, "Sir, you have erected a prodigiously impressive edifice. But I am not persuaded that its foundations are firm enough to bear its weight."

Noak drew near to me in my chair, and, small though he was, towered over me. "Then help me test its strength." Such was his passion that he sprayed a few drops of moisture on my upturned face. "If my hypothesis is correct, Mr Shield, if their fears and their desires are so precariously balanced, then the smallest jar, the slightest shock, will serve to overset them. And who better than yourself to administer it?"

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