Bernard Cornwell - Gallows Thief

It started to rain again.

===OO=OOO=OO===

Sandman walked slowly northwards.

He was truly nervous now, so nervous that he wondered whether he had gone to the Seraphim Club merely to delay this next duty.

Was it a duty? He told himself it was, though he suspected it was an indulgence and was certain it was foolishness. Yet Sally had been right. Find the girl Meg, find her and so discover the truth, and the best way of finding a servant was to ask other servants which was why he was walking to Davies Street, a place he had assiduously avoided for the last six months.

Yet when he knocked on the door it all seemed so familiar and Hammond, the butler, did not even blink an eyelid. 'Captain Rider,' he said, 'what a pleasure, sir, may I take your coat? You should carry an umbrella, sir.'

'You know the Duke never approved of umbrellas, Hammond.'

'The Duke of Wellington might order the fashion of soldiers, sir, but his Grace has no authority over London pedestrians. Might I enquire how your mother is, sir?'

'She doesn't change, Hammond. The world suits her ill.'

'I am sorry to hear it, sir.' Hammond hung Sandman's coat and hat on a rack that was already heavy with other garments. 'Have you an invitation card?' he asked.

'Lady Forrest is giving a musical entertainment? I'm afraid I wasn't invited. I was hoping Sir Henry was at home, but if not I can leave a note.'

'He is home, sir, and I am sure he will want to receive you. Why don't you wait in the small parlour?'

The small parlour was twice the size of the drawing room in the house Sandman rented for his mother and sister in Winchester, a fact his mother mentioned frequently but which did not bear thinking of now, and so he gazed at a painting of sheep in a meadow and listened to a tenor singing a flamboyant piece beyond the double doors that led to the larger rooms at the back of the house. The man finished with a flourish, there was a patter of applause and then the door from the hall opened and Sir Henry Forrest came in. 'My dear Rider!'

'Sir Henry.'

'A new French tenor,' Sir Henry said dolefully, 'who should have been stopped at Dover.' Sir Henry had never much appreciated his wife's musical entertainments and usually took good care to avoid them. 'I forgot there was an entertainment this afternoon,' he explained, 'otherwise I might have stayed at the bank.' He gave Sandman a sly smile. 'How are you, Rider?'

'I'm well, thank you. And you, sir?'

'Keeping busy, Rider, keeping busy. The Court of Aldermen demands time and Europe needs money and we supply it, or at least we scrape up the business that Rothschild and Baring don't want. Have you seen the price of corn? Sixty-three shillings a quarter in Norwich last week. Can you credit it?' Sir Henry had given Sandman's clothes a swift inspection to determine if his fortunes had improved and decided they had not. 'How is your mother?'

'Querulous,' Sandman said.

Sir Henry grimaced. 'Querulous, yes. Poor woman.' He shuddered. 'Still has the dogs, does she?'

'I fear so, sir.' Sandman's mother lavished affection on two lap dogs; noisy, ill-mannered and smelly.

Sir Henry opened the drawer of a sideboard and took out two cigars. 'Can't smoke in the conservatory today,' he said, 'so we might as well be hanged for fumigating the parlour, eh?' He paused to light a tinder box, then the cigar. His height, slight stoop, silver hair and doleful face had always reminded Sandman of Don Quixote, yet the resemblance was misleading as dozens of business rivals had discovered too late. Sir Henry, son of an apothecary, had an instinctive understanding of money; how to make it, how to use it and how to multiply it. Those skills had helped build the ships and feed the armies and cast the guns that had defeated Napoleon and they had brought Henry Forrest his knighthood, for which his wife was more than grateful. He was, in brief, a man of talent, though hesitant in dealing with people. 'It's good to see you, Rider,' he said now and he meant it, for Sandman was one of the few people Sir Henry felt comfortable with. 'It's been too long.'

'It has, Sir Henry.'

'So what are you doing these days?'

'A rather unusual job, sir, which has persuaded me to seek a favour from you.'

'A favour, eh?' Sir Henry still sounded friendly, but there was caution in his eyes.

'I really need to ask it of Hammond, sir.'

'Of Hammond, eh?' Sir Henry peered at Sandman as if he was unsure whether he had heard correctly. 'My butler?'

'I should explain,' Sandman said.

'I imagine you should,' Sir Henry said and then, still frowning in perplexity, went back to the sideboard where he poured two brandies. 'You will have a glass with me, won't you? It still seems odd to see you out of uniform. So what is it you want of Hammond?'

But before Sandman could explain, the double doors to the drawing room opened and Eleanor was standing there and the light from the large drawing room was behind her so that it seemed as if her hair was a red halo about her face. She looked at Sandman, then took a very long breath before smiling at her father. 'Mother was concerned that you would miss the duet, Papa.'

'The duet, eh?'

'The Pearman sisters, Papa, have been practising for weeks,' Eleanor explained, then looked back again to Sandman. 'Rider,' she said softly.

'Miss Eleanor,' he said very formally, then bowed.

She gazed at him. Behind her, in the drawing room, a score of guests were perched on gilt chairs that faced the open doors of the conservatory where two young women were seating themselves on the piano bench. Eleanor glanced at them, then firmly closed the doors. 'I think the Pearman sisters can manage without me. How are you, Rider?'

'I am well, thank you, well.' He had thought for a second that he would not be able to speak for the breath had caught in his throat and he could feel tears in his eyes. Eleanor was wearing a dress of pale-green silk with yellow lace at the breast and cuffs. She had a necklace of gold and amber that Sandman had not seen before, and he felt a strange jealousy of the life she had led in the last six months. She was, he remembered, engaged to be married and that cut deep, though he took care to betray nothing. 'I am well,' he said again, 'and you?'

'I am distraught that you are well,' Eleanor said with mock severity. 'To think you can be well without me? This is misery, Rider.'

'Eleanor,' her father chided her.

'I tease, Papa, it is permitted, and so few things are.' She turned on Sandman. 'Have you just come to town for the day?'

'I live here,' Sandman said.

'I didn't know.' Her grey eyes seemed huge. What had Sir George Phillips said of her? That her nose was too long, her chin too sharp, her eyes too far apart, her hair too red and her mouth too lavish, and it was all true, yet just by looking at her Sandman felt almost light-headed, as though he had drunk a whole bottle of brandy and not just two sips. He stared at her and she stared back and neither spoke.

'Here in London?' Sir Henry broke the silence.

'Sir?' Sandman forced himself to look at Sir Henry.

'You live here, Rider? In London?'

'In Drury Lane, sir.'

Sir Henry frowned. 'That's a trifle—' he paused, 'dangerous?'

'It's a tavern,' Sandman explained, 'that was recommended to me by a Rifle officer in Winchester and I was settled in before I discovered it was, perhaps, a less than desirable address. But it suits me.'

'Have you been here long?' Eleanor asked.

'Three weeks,' he admitted, 'a little over.'

She looked, Sandman thought, as though he had struck her in the face. 'And you didn't call?' she protested.

Sandman felt himself reddening. 'I was not sure,' he said, 'to what end I should call. I thought you would appreciate it if I did not.'

'If you thought at all,' Eleanor said tartly. Her eyes were grey, almost smoky, with flecks of green in them.