Andrew Taylor - The Silent Boy

‘I dare say Mr Rampton will see you shortly,’ the clerk muttered.

He retired behind the partition, where he pulled a handle in the wall by the fireplace and clambered on to his stool. Savill heard the ping of a distant bell. He sat, his face impassive, while the three clerks took turns to peer over the partition at the visitor. As soon as he met their eyes, they looked away.

Five minutes passed, perhaps ten. There were footsteps on the stairs and Malbourne came into the office. He was no longer wearing the black-silk sling.

‘Mr Savill, sir, your servant. I beg your pardon for keeping you waiting. Mr Rampton’s quite at leisure now and begs you to step up.’

‘What is this place?’ Savill asked as he climbed the stairs.

Malbourne glanced over his shoulder. ‘We are part of the Post Office, sir.’

A clock ticked on the first-floor landing and the brass door furniture shone. Malbourne led him into an office overlooking the street and tapped on an inner door. Rampton’s voice cried ‘Enter’.

The room beyond was large, airy and comfortably furnished. Only a large table set along one wall hinted that business was transacted here. It held bundles of letters tied with pink ribbon, some of them sorted into flat, rectangular baskets.

Savill bowed to Mr Rampton who, with great condescension, rose from his chair behind his desk and inclined his head in return.

‘How obliging of you to call,’ Mr Rampton said, as if this was no more than a casual meeting. ‘Shall Malbourne send out for something? Is it too early for a glass of sherry?’

‘Not for me, sir, thank you.’

‘You may leave us, Horace. Close the door, but hold yourself at readiness in case I need you.’

Malbourne bowed and withdrew. He closed the door but Savill did not hear the snick of the catch engaging.

Rampton waved Savill to a chair beside his desk. ‘Tell me, how does Miss Elizabeth do this morning?’

Savill said she was very well and added that his daughter would be most gratified to hear that her uncle Rampton had been enquiring after her.

Rampton nodded impatiently. ‘I take it that you have not had second thoughts about our agreement?’

‘No, sir. As you may recall, I have committed myself merely to—’

‘Yes, to be sure we are quite clear about where we both stand.’ Rampton opened a drawer and took out a small packet. ‘For my part, I have not been idle since we last met. I directed my attorney to write on your behalf to the Count, informing him that you, as my poor niece’s husband, propose to call on him at Charnwood to collect the boy and the necessary papers. My name does not appear, of course. The Count should have received the letter by now.’

The top of Rampton’s desk was almost empty – it was a fad of his, Savill remembered, to keep the desk he worked on as clear as possible. He broke the seal that secured the outer wrapping of the packet. He took out two sheets of paper.

‘This one confirms who you are,’ he said, ‘and this one is an attested copy of the marriage certificate of my poor niece and yourself.’ He put down the papers and took up a third. ‘Are you familiar with the terms of the new Police Act? No? Well, I suppose there’s no reason that a law-abiding citizen need be. One of the provisions of the act was to set up police offices and appoint stipendiary magistrates. Foolish people always assume that such measures constitute a mechanism for government to suppress the liberties of individual citizens …’

‘Are they wrong?’

‘Of course they are. Our police have a particular task, and only one: to prevent revolution. One of their magistrates, Mr Ford, has provided you with this warrant: it gives you the authority to enter Charnwood Court and remove the boy Charles into your keep. I hope it will not be necessary for you to use it, but there is no harm in your being prepared.’

Savill watched the papers multiplying on the desk. He felt stirrings of alarm. Attorneys? Magistrates? Police offices?

Rampton picked up another document. ‘Now, you should not need this but it will serve to introduce you to a local justice as a representative of the police office. Mr Ford requires him to give you any assistance you may need. In case of emergency, he appoints you under the Police Act as his agent or deputy, which gives you temporary powers of inquiry, arrest and detention, subject of course to his confirmation.’ He looked at Savill and his hand fluttered as if shaking drops of water from his fingers. ‘Again, just in case.’

‘Surely this is quite unnecessary, sir?’

‘Almost certainly it is,’ Rampton said. ‘But the Government believes these are dangerous people. One should take nothing for granted.’ The fingers fluttered to alight upon another sheet of paper. ‘Say, for example, you should desire to communicate with me while you are at Charnwood. Do not write to me here or at Vardells. Address the letter to Frederick Brown, Esquire, at the White Horse Cellar in Piccadilly, to await collection. I have made a memorandum here.’

Savill said, ‘Who is Mr Brown?’

‘There is no Mr Brown, as such. He is a convenient fiction. I must emphasize that my name must not appear in this in any way. It would be prejudicial to the Government.’

‘Why, sir?’

‘I’m afraid I am not at liberty to say.’ Rampton smiled across the desk. ‘Now – this is an inside ticket to Bath, on the mail diligence. I understand that Charnwood is fifteen or twenty miles from the city. You will have to hire a conveyance to take you on to Charnwood. And perhaps on your way back with the boy, you will find it easier to hire a chaise at Bath and travel post up to London.’

Rampton unlocked another drawer and took out a small canvas roll. He placed it on the desk, where it lay like a grey sausage.

‘Fifty guineas in gold,’ he said. ‘You must sign for it, of course, and we will require a full account of any monies you disperse. The sum should be ample, but in case of emergency here is a letter to Mr Green of Green’s Bank in Bath. It will authorize you to withdraw further funds. But I do not think you will need to trouble him.’

Savill took the papers and looked through them. Rampton pushed pen and ink towards him. Savill signed receipts for the money and the papers. He stowed them both in an inner pocket. He felt the weight of the gold dragging him down.

‘There’s more to this than the boy,’ he said.

‘I beg your pardon?’ Rampton said. ‘I don’t follow you.’

‘All this. The money. This deed. The warrant. Your Mr Brown.’

‘My dear sir, you are allowing your fancies to run away with you.’ Rampton sat back and stared at Savill. Then, unexpectedly, he smiled. ‘I have been quite candid with you. I want to restore Charles to his family. I want to bring him up as my heir. All these precautions are necessary solely because of the peculiar nature of his present guardians – and, indeed, the delicate nature of my own employment. Is all this so very strange?’

‘Pray, sir,’ Savill said, ‘what exactly is the business of this office?’

‘What? Oh, there’s no mystery about that. We are a sub-department of the Post Office. We are known as the Foreign Office, or the Black Letter Office, because we handle the foreign mails.’ Rampton rang a bell on his desk. ‘While you are here, it may be helpful for you to hear a little more about Charnwood.’

Malbourne entered the room. He inclined his head. ‘Sir?’

‘Charnwood Court, Malbourne – who owns the freehold?’

‘A lady named Mrs West, sir, the widow of the brewer. She resides at Norbury Park, I believe, when she is in the country. Charnwood is a house on the Norbury estate.’ Malbourne cleared his throat. ‘When she was in town in the spring, she was often seen in the company of Monsieur Fournier. In fact, I believe it was he who arranged the tenancy, and it is his name on the lease.’