into Mrs Kerridge’s receipts.
Carswall fumbled in his waistcoat pocket and brought out his watch. “You’ve taken your time about it, Shield, in all events. Well? What news? What the devil were you doing with the nigger?”
I summarised what I had discovered: that Mr Poe had left his lodgings in Fountain-court, apparently because he had found a new position, and moved down to Queen-street in Seven Dials. According to his landlord there, he had been suffering from the toothache. Three days ago, he had vanished, leaving at least some of his possessions behind.
“Three days?” Mr Carswall said. “So he’s been seen after the murder? So what of Noak’s nigger?”
“Yes, sir. But to revert to Mr Poe for one moment more. There is the question of the toothache.”
“Ah – you mean his face was covered? So the man might not have been Poe?”
“It is at least a possibility. Unlike the woman in Fountain-court, Mr Iversen – Poe’s landlord, that is to say – does not appear to have known him well, or for long.” I had a splitting headache and was finding it hard to order my thoughts and frame my words. On the other hand, since finding the sketch of the boy, my amnesia had receded like the fog rolling back, and I could now remember most of what had occurred in those missing moments. I told Mr Carswall about the dumb maidservant and handed him the sketch with the address on the back.
He studied the drawing of the schoolboy for a moment and then turned it over and examined the address on the back. “Lambert-place? Where’s that?”
“I am not sure, sir. But there is more: as I was walking through the passage that led from the yard at the back of the house to the street, I was attacked by two ruffians.”
“In league with the landlord?”
“Not necessarily. They could have come from the street. Fortunately my cries attracted the attention of Mr Harmwell, who came to my rescue.”
“Ah, the nigger. So we come to him again. What was he doing there?”
“He and Mr Noak would have me believe it was coincidence.”
“The alternatives are that he was in league with the landlord, or that he followed you.”
“At one point as I walked from Fountain-court to Seven Dials, I thought someone might be behind me. But the fog was so thick I could not be sure. And when I was in Mr Iversen’s shop, I wondered whether someone was spying on us through the window to the street.”
Carswall tugged his lower lip and gave a great sigh. “How did they treat you, he and Mr Noak?”
“Nothing could have been kinder. Mr Harmwell bore me off in the hackney to Mr Noak’s lodgings in Brewer-street, and they gave me a glass of brandy. They did not press me for information. Then Mr Noak told Mr Harmwell to bring me back here. They would not even allow me to pay the fare.”
“In the morning, find Lambert-place and discover whether the people of number nine know anything of a visitor from Queen-street.”
“Should I be looking for Mr Frant, sir, or for Mr Poe?”
Carswall glared at me. “How the devil should I know?”
“I thought perhaps the handwriting –”
“A couple of words? What use is that?”
“The drawing appears to be of a schoolboy.”
“Charlie, you mean? Or the American? Well, that gets us no further, does it? Nor is there anything to show that the hand that wrote the address is the hand that made the drawing. But perhaps Mrs Frant might know whether Frant amused himself with a pencil – yes, ring the bell there.”
I obeyed. A moment later the footman returned and Carswall inquired how Mrs Frant did. Pratt replied that she had come down to the drawing room for a few minutes, with Miss Carswall to keep her company. It was, I knew, the first time she had left her bedchamber for several days, apart from attending the funeral. Charlie was with her, too. With uncharacteristic consideration, Carswall told the man to inquire whether it would be convenient for him to wait upon her.
While he was waiting for an answer, Carswall hauled himself to his feet. Swaying, he supported himself on the mantelpiece.
“We shall go down to the country in a few days’ time,” he said. “Mrs Frant and her son will of course go with us.”
“He is not to return to Mr Bransby’s?”
Carswall shook his heavy head. “I cannot see the justification for the extra expense, particularly as Mrs Frant will no longer maintain a London residence. I have discussed the matter with her, and she agrees with me: it will be kinder to the boy to remove him promptly from the school. The circumstances of his father’s ruin and disappearance must weigh heavily against him there.”
The intelligence came as a blow to me, though I had half expected it. I stood in miserable silence while Carswall whistled tunelessly. Mrs Frant must know that Mr Carswall had cheated her out of her Uncle Wavenhoe’s last bequest. Yet she was so reduced in her circumstances that she had no choice but to follow the advice of the man who had made her son a beggar.
At last the footman returned with a message from Mrs Frant. She begged to be excused: she did not yet feel equal to the exertion.
Mr Carswall muttered to himself, “Still, it don’t signify. She shall talk to me soon enough. They all like to tease.”
He stood there for a moment, scratching himself like an old pig in a sty. Then he appeared to recollect he was not alone. He sat down heavily in his elbow chair, looked up at me and smiled, disconcerting me again with that glimpse of Miss Carswall in his ugly face.
“I’m much obliged to you, sir, much obliged for all you have done. You have not had an easy time of it, I am afraid. And it is good of you to undertake to be my eyes and legs.” He felt in his waistcoat pocket for his watch. “If only there were more time,” he said, staring at the dial. “Still, I must not detain you any longer – you have your pupil to attend to. I shall see you on your return tomorrow.”
Thus dismissed, I made my way slowly upstairs. I was sadly out of humour. My spirits were depressed by the prospect of returning to the school which had so recently been a haven to me. As I reached the first-floor landing, however, the drawing-room door opened. A black dress fluttered and my nostrils caught the scent of Parma violets.
“Mrs Frant! I – I hope I find you better.”
“Yes, thank you, sir,” she said, closing the door behind her. “I have been very ill, but I am now somewhat improved.”
Her face was white and hollow-cheeked, and her eyes blazed as though she was still in the grip of a fever. She glanced hurriedly along the landing and up the stairs.
I began to speak, hardly aware of what I was saying: “I cannot say how much I regret –”
“Mrs Kerridge tells me you were hurt,” she interrupted in a low, urgent voice, and it was as well for me that she did not allow me to finish my sentence. “That you were attacked by ruffians.”
My hand flew to the bruise on my head. “It
