The Scent of Death (19 page)

My own actions, I fear, had nothing of the honourable about them. I carried the candle to the secretary and unlocked the flap of its desk. A man’s bureau is his sanctum, his private place, and I did not wish to pry into Mr Wintour’s. The proper course would have been to inform the Judge that I had found Mr Noak alone in the room with the open secretary and to leave him to pursue the matter however seemed best to him. Instead I opened the flap and held up the candle so that I might see what lay within.

More papers lay scattered on the horizontal surface of the desk, together with a red ribbon that had probably held them in a bundle. One of them was a sort of docket indicating that the papers related to Mount George and the Froude Estate.

At the back of the secretary was a rack of pigeonholes resting on two tiers of drawers. One of the drawers was slightly open and I pulled it further out, taking care not to let the candlewax drip on the papers.

The drawer was empty. The anticlimax shocked me back to a sense of what I was doing: I had allowed my curiosity to overpower every principle of good sense and right conduct. Shame crept over me. I stepped back, closed the flap and turned the key in the lock again.

My change of heart had an unexpected sequel. As I moved away, I glanced down to see if I had left any trace of my prying. My eye caught a glimpse of something on the floor by the side of the secretary: a small, pale triangle that stood out against the dark wood of the furniture and the floorboards.

I bent down to examine it. A sheet of paper had slid under the secretary, leaving only a corner of it visible. I picked it up and, as I did so, the light fell on the lines of writing that crossed the paper. A single word sprang out at me:
Arabella
.

In an instant my rectitude was put to one side, if not absolutely forgotten. In that same instant I remembered the sounds of rustling and hurried movement as I had opened the library door: had Noak been examining this paper and, in his haste, had he dropped it as he tried to return it to the secretary before he was discovered with it in his hand?

I could not resist the temptation. I sat down at the table with the candle. If Noak was a spy, then so was I. I was looking at a letter addressed to Judge Wintour at Warren Street. I glanced at the signature and made it out as
H. Froude
. To the left of this was the place and date of writing: Mount George, 28 November, 1776.

My Dear Sir – It is with a heavy heart that I must inform you that my Daughter was brought to bed and delivered of a stillborn Baby, a girl. Her Waters broke sooner than expected in the early hours of yesterday morning, and we were unable to find a Midwife; and of course there is no Physician to be had. As a Consequence she had only her Maid to attend her, though I believe the Fatality was inevitable for the Cord was wrapped about the Child’s neck in the Womb. We do not know where Captain Wintour is at present and I should be obliged if you would communicate the unhappy News of his Child’s Death to him.

We despaired of Arabella’s life for several hours after the Birth but her condition has improved and with God’s help she will recover. The roads are in a sad Condition but, despite the time of year, we shall leave for New York as soon as we are able. I am, sir, etc. H. Froude

P.S. I send this letter by the hand of a Farrier who says he is going to New York to find Work now the Rebels have been put to Flight. Also, pray inform the Captain that his slave Juvenal has absconded, for our troubles do not come singly. But we pray God we shall reach New York in Safety.

So that explained it, I thought: that was why Mrs Arabella hated Mount George so much that she wished never to see the place again.

I might have learned nothing more about this unhappy affair if it hadn’t been for Mrs Ann Frobisher.

She was a stout, vigorous lady from North Carolina, where her husband had a substantial estate. She arrived in my office on Wednesday, 3 March, took as if by right the chair nearest the stove and handed me her papers with the air of one conferring a favour. I judged from her appearance that she had already taken the opportunity of her visit to patronize New York’s shops, as did most Whig ladies when they had occasion to cross the lines and visit the city.

During this strange and unnecessary war, both military and civil visitors came and went continuously in New York. Some, like Mrs Frobisher, had passes and arrived under a flag of truce. Others travelled without the benefit of permission from either side or both, slipping through the lines as if they simply didn’t exist.

Mrs Frobisher’s pass was signed by Governor Livingston on the rebel side and by General Pattison on ours; so her papers were entirely in order.

‘I came over on the flag-boat from Elizabethtown,’ she said. ‘It was a terrible crossing – I was quite prostrated, sir, believe me – but the dear general was so obliging as to send his coach for me.’

I knew from this that I would be wise to take the lady seriously and begged her to tell me how I might be of service to her. It transpired that her husband was an incorrigible Whig, and was linked by blood, interest and friendship with many other rebels in North Carolina and in neighbouring Virginia. He had declared for Congress early in the war.

But, as was so often the case in this strange conflict, there were divided loyalties in the bosom of the family and perhaps in the majestic bosom of Mrs Frobisher herself. One of her three sons had joined a Loyalist regiment and had died at the Battle of Harlem Heights. A daughter had married a British officer, whose regiment was at present quartered on Staten Island.

The daughter was the ostensible reason for Mrs Frobisher’s visit to New York. The young lady had suffered a difficult pregnancy; there were already young children in the house; and it was felt that a mother’s tender care for a few weeks would be of inexpressible value to the little family.

All this Mrs Frobisher explained to me at length. There was nothing exceptional about her story: many American families had a foot in both camps – in most cases not so much from calculation, I believe, as from necessity: for that is the nature of civil war.

Now, like so many American ladies and gentlemen of my acquaintance, she was convinced that King George owed her compensation for the inconveniences he had caused her. She wished to place in my hands a petition from her husband to His Majesty for instant transmission to London.

‘Madam,’ I said gently, ‘if I understand you aright, your husband is of the Whig persuasion and has given his support to the King’s enemies. I do not think it probable that His Majesty will desire to compensate him for any losses he may have sustained.’

‘Ah – but you labour under a misapprehension, sir.’ Mrs Frobisher’s heavy eyebrows drew together in a frown, and her small eyes shrank back into the folds of skin that enveloped them. ‘These losses were not my husband’s. They were my son’s. And, God rest his soul, he was as loyal a subject of the King as ever lived.’

I bowed my head, choosing not to dispute the fact.

Mrs Frobisher leaned forward in her chair as if about to pounce on me. ‘And, as I have already told you, sir, he laid down his life for King George.’

‘I applaud your son’s valour, ma’am,’ I said. ‘But did he leave a widow or children?’

She shook her head.

‘Then who is his heir?’

‘Why, his father, of course.’

‘And what does his estate consist o
f
?’

‘It’s a plantation my son got from his godfather, sir. The terms of the bequest are that, in the event of his death without heirs, it should pass to my husband.’ She thrust her hand into the pocket of her dress. ‘I have all the papers here, including affidavits from Loyalist gentlemen in the neighbourhood and the colonel of my poor son’s regiment. He is a great friend of General Pattison’s, as it happens.’

At this point the lady placed a plump packet of papers on the table between us. Next, she resorted to a piece of theatre: she gave out a great sigh and dabbed at her eyes with a handkerchief, all the while observing me closely.

I looked over the papers. Now and then Mrs Frobisher sniffed loudly, perhaps to remind me of her grief over her son’s death.

The estate in question was near Charlotte. It consisted of a small tobacco plantation together with about forty slaves. According to Mrs Frobisher, the place had been worth in the region of £120 per annum. There had been a house for the owner and a smaller dwelling for the overseer and his family. British troops had passed through the country and had burned the building, plundered everything of value and ravaged the land. They had also freed the slaves, some of whom had not been recaptured.

‘Those wicked soldiers believed it was my husband’s plantation,’ Mrs Frobisher said, lowering her handkerchief for a moment. ‘They did not realize it belonged to my poor dear boy.’

The claim was supported by a copy of the godfather’s will and the letter from the son’s colonel. There was a letter from the Governor of North Carolina, no less, confirming the loyalty of Ensign Frobisher and his gallant death in action. Finally there were two depositions from neighbouring gentlemen, both Loyalists and both intimate with the Frobishers, confirming the material facts of their claim.

As far as I was concerned, the matter was straightforward: I would accept Mrs Frobisher’s petition and assure her of my best offices. I would forward it to Mr Rampton at the American Department with all the other claims. And that would probably be the last I should hear of the matter.

But – as I was folding the papers and considering how best to send the lady on her way without trampling on her tender feelings – a detail struck me.

I looked up at Mrs Frobisher. ‘I see your son’s estate is near Charlotte, madam.’

‘Yes, sir.’ She made a play with her handkerchief. ‘Such a convenient location adds inestimably to its value.’

‘Indeed. I wonder – were you by any chance acquainted with a gentleman named Pickett? I believe he lived near Charlotte.’

‘Jonathan Pickett? Slightly, yes. He died before the war.’

‘I meant Roger Pickett.’

‘That is his son.’

I sat forward in my chair. ‘Did you know him, ma’am?’

‘Only by reputation.’ She stared at me. ‘Why do you ask?’

‘I regret to say the young man was murdered last year.’

‘Good God. Here in New York? How very strange – what happened?’

‘He was robbed. A runaway slave was hanged for the crime.’

Mrs Frobisher folded her hands on her lap. ‘Well – I confess I’m not surprised.’

‘Why not, pray?’

‘People always said that Roger Pickett would come to a bad end, one way or another. When his father died, he sold the estate before the poor man’s body was cold in his grave. Then he set about sowing as many wild oats as he could. That’s what they say, in any case. He ran through all his money within the year and was obliged to enlist in the army to escape his creditors.’

‘Do you remember if he had any family, any connections?’

‘There was a sister, too, but she married and went to live in England when her papa was still alive.’ Mrs Frobisher must have sensed my eagerness, and fortunately she wished to please me. ‘But I tell you what you should do, sir, if you wish to know about the Picketts: you should talk to Dr Slype.’

‘Who is Dr Slype, ma’am?’

‘A clergyman who lived in Charlotte before the war. He and his wife removed to New York. They are very amiable people and they knew everybody. If they are still here, my daughter will know their direction.’

‘I should like to talk to him, ma’am.’

‘Then, if you desire it, I shall find out where they are living. If I could, I would call on dear Mrs Slype myself. But at present I cannot call my time my own.’

Five minutes later, I showed Mrs Frobisher to the door in a perfect shower of mutual compliments. She paused in the doorway, turning back and smiling at me in a manner that could almost be described as flirtatious.

‘I wonder what he was doing here,’ she said.

‘Who, ma’am? Mr Pickett?’

‘Yes.’ She tapped my arm with her gloved hand. ‘For surely, my dear sir, New York is the last place you would expect to find him. Unless of course he was one of our poor prisoners of war in those dreadful hulks of yours.’

A contagious distemper had broken out in the slave quarters at Warren Street. This had been the reason for Mrs Arabella’s premature return from the theatre the other night, for Josiah had feared that the symptoms might signal the onset of smallpox.

But we were spared smallpox, at least for the time being, though the lesser distemper showed little sign of abating. Some of the servants went down with it. Both Mrs Wintour and I caught it as well. I spent several days confined to bed and feeling wretchedly miserable.

When at last I returned to the office I found a mass of work awaiting me, together with a scented billet from Mrs Frobisher. She thanked me profusely for my kindness in being so obliging and hinted at the great pleasure it would give her to renew our acquaintance when she next had the happiness of being in New York. Almost as an afterthought, she enclosed the address of the Reverend Dr Slype.

I was not able to find time to call on the gentleman for about a fortnight. In the meantime, Josiah’s fears proved well founded. Nearly a week after my interview with Mrs Frobisher, I was dining at Warren Street when Abraham came into the room and whispered something in the Judge’s ear.

Mr Wintour looked very grave. He waved the young servant away and tapped the blade of his knife against a wine glass. The rest of us fell silent.

‘Bad news, I’m afraid. They have a case of confluent smallpox further down the street – at the Morleys’. There is no doubt about it.’

‘The smallpox?’ said the Captain. ‘Is it an epidemic, sir?’

His father massaged his forehead. ‘If it is, it is unusually early in the year.’ He turned to me. ‘Summer is our worst season, of course, sir – the disease thrives in the heat. But the city is so crowded nowadays that there is no longer any pattern to it. Our situation is most unhealthy and grows worse by the day. Indeed, nothing is certain any more. We shall have snow in August before we are done.’