Andrew Taylor - The Silent Boy

Savill bowed.

‘I’m told that you act as the English agent of several Americans who have property in this country and you undertake a variety of commissions for them. And sometimes also for gentlemen of the law.’

Rampton paused. He sat back in his chair and smiled at Savill, who said nothing.

‘That’s all very well, I’m sure,’ Rampton went on, ‘But in this unsettled world of ours, there is much to be said for the tranquillity of mind that a fixed salary brings, is there not?’ Frowning, he massaged his fingers. ‘I might possibly be able to put you in the way of a position, which would provide a modest competence paid quarterly. A clerkship in the Colonies, perhaps, you know the sort of thing. You would be able to appoint a deputy to do the work so you would not find it inconvenient or unduly onerous.’

A bribe, Savill thought. He is offering me a bribe if I do as he wishes. He took out a pair of dice he kept in his waistcoat pocket and rolled them from one hand to the other. A seven.

‘I had not put you down as a gambler, sir,’ Rampton said.

‘I’m not. The dice remind me that chance plays its part in all our actions.’

‘You are grown quite philosophical.’

Savill shrugged. In truth, he kept the dice in his pocket because they reminded him that nothing should be taken for granted, that the Wheel of Fortune might spin at any moment, that everything was precarious. He had learned that long ago in another country.

‘Permit me to tell you why I want the boy,’ the old man said.

‘Charles, sir,’ Savill said. ‘His name is Charles.’

‘Indeed, sir. But pray hear me out. You have had a month to grow accustomed to my proposal. You see this?’ He waved his hand about the room. ‘This house of mine, the gardens, the farms, the house in Westminster. All this, and indeed there’s more. But I have no children of my own – no one to leave this to. Nor do I have any close relations left alive, no one to carry my name into the future. That is why I want Charles. He is Augusta’s son, therefore he is my own kin, my own great-nephew. I wish him to bear the name of Rampton. And is this not the happiest outcome for all concerned? After all, I am his nearest relation, in blood if not in law.’

‘No, sir, you are not.’ Savill took up his glass. ‘My daughter Lizzie is his nearest relation. She’s his half-sister.’

‘A quibble, my dear sir. She does not even know of the boy’s existence. She cannot miss what she has never had. Nor is she in a position to do anything for him.’

Rampton placed his hand on Savill’s arm. ‘So perhaps we can come to an arrangement?’

‘You cannot buy him, sir, if that’s what you mean.’

‘I would make him my heir. My adopted son.’

‘Then I am surprised you have not brought him here already,’ Savill said. ‘Rather than leave him in such evil company.’

Rampton took a deep breath and tried the effect of a smile. ‘You must understand that my position makes it quite impossible for me to be seen as a principal in this affair. As one of His Majesty’s civil servants, it would not be fitting for me to have private business with the Count de Quillon and his friends, whose reputations are irrevocably stained by their political and moral degeneracy. For the same reason, I cannot send Malbourne. Besides, the press of business is such that I do not believe I could spare him.’

‘I see that no such scruples need restrain me,’ Savill said, resisting a sudden urge to laugh.

‘Indeed – as a private citizen and Augusta’s husband, you have every right to claim the boy. My name need not appear in the matter at all. There is another consideration which may sway you – Monsieur de Quillon and Monsieur Fournier hold the papers attesting to Augusta’s death and burial. You must have these. You will need them, not least if you should ever wish to marry again … after all, my dear sir, you are still in the prime of life. And then – what if the Count should refuse to surrender Charles? Only you are in a position to force his hand. Indeed, it is your duty.’

‘But why the devil should Monsieur de Quillon wish to retain him?’ Savill said.

Rampton cracked his knuckles. ‘Oh, as to that – that is part of the difficulty; the Count has a foolish fancy that Charles is his son.’

Charnwood is an old house where nothing is correct. All the lines are crooked – the walls, the roofs, the chimneystacks. It stands in a muddy place where it is always cold and raining. At night it is so dark and quiet that if a person screamed only the stars would hear him.

We are quite safe here, Fournier tells Charles. No one can harm us.

But nobody is happy here, Charles thinks, even Fournier and the Count, who talk endlessly about King Louis and the poor royal family, captives in the Temple, and about their own unhappy plight.

‘We are in exile,’ the Count says one morning when Charles is in the room. ‘No one will visit us here. I declare I shall die of boredom.’

It is settled that Dr Gohlis will join the party, though Charles understands that he is not so much a visitor as a superior sort of servant who is permitted to dine with his masters. Fournier gives him permission to use a room over the stables for his experiments.

‘Monsieur de Quillon and I do not want you pursuing your studies in the house,’ Fournier says to the doctor by way of pleasantry. ‘It would not be agreeable to hear the screams of your victims.’

Charles listens to the servants’ conversation. The servants talk quite freely when he is among them. He learns that, in their eyes, his inability to speak makes him an idiot or a dumb animal. He also eavesdrops on the Count, which is not difficult because he rarely moderates the volume of his voice.

So Charles soon learns the reason why nobody comes to call on them. It is a fact to be recorded in his memory and relied on. The Vicar of Norbury, Mr Horton, does not approve of the Count and Monsieur Fournier. Their politics, their lack of religion and their amoral conduct put them beyond the pale.

The local gentry, such as they are – ‘Jumped-up farmers,’ says the Count, ‘clodhopping peasants with turnips under their fingernails’ – take their lead from Mr Horton. The King of England does not like them either, so no one is allowed to come down from London.

Mrs West, who lives at Norbury Park, is their friend, but she cannot call at Charnwood because there is no lady in the house to receive her. Sometimes the gentlemen call on her and she asks them to dine. But Charles always stays at Charnwood.

The Count summons Charles. The grown-ups are dining so they are all there around the table. The room with its peeling wallpaper smells of gravy and wine and perfume as well as of damp.

‘You went outside today,’ the Count says. ‘Saul saw you in the stableyard.’

Saul is Monsieur de Quillon’s valet, who has come with him from France.

The Count leans his elbow on the table and brings his great head almost to the level of Charles’s. ‘That’s all right. When you are at liberty, you may go there. And you may go into the gardens. But that is all. You must not go into the woods, or the fields, or into the village. Is that understood?’

Charles stares at him.

‘Well?’ the Count says. ‘You understand? Why the devil will you not speak?’

‘We must see what we can contrive,’ Gohlis says, putting his head on one side and studying Charles. ‘He can do better than this.’

Fournier says, ‘Yes, he does understand. You can see it in his eyes.’

‘It is most interesting,’ the doctor says to the Count. ‘Considered philosophically and scientifically. You must permit me to try an experiment, sir.’