Richard and Judy Bookclub - 3 Bestsellers in 1: The American Boy, The Savage Garden, The Righteous Men
loathsome,” I said. “Merely ordinary.”
I felt her hand tighten on my arm but she said no more. I knew she was upset. Joe and his fellow servants might indeed be ordinary men, but they were not ordinary men of the type with which she was familiar. It shocked her to discover that Mrs Johnson had sunk to become a figure of fun, a drunken woman to be ridiculed when she fell on the street rather than helped to her feet; a woman whose morals were perhaps suspect in all matters – at least in the opinion of those ordinary men.
The snowflakes still floated silently down from the great darkness of the sky, though less urgently than before. It was as cold as charity. We hurried onwards as fast as we dared. We reached the crossroads, and lingered for a moment on the corner by the Tolsey, the building where the city’s business was transacted.
“What shall we do?” Mrs Frant said. “She might be anywhere. Should we go on?”
“But in which direction?”
“I fear for her safety.”
“At least she is not alone.”
“Some companions may prove worse than solitude.”
“I think we should retrace our steps,” I said. “Is it not more likely that they turned into one of the alleys we passed? Or went into one of the inns or alehouses?”
Mrs Frant shivered. “We cannot abandon her. We must try something. Anything might have happened to her. Should we not find a constable?”
“If we cannot find her, then we must.”
“I shudder to think of the scandal.”
“Listen,” I said.
Someone close at hand was crying quietly. Mrs Frant’s hand tightened its grip on my arm. Suddenly, a man burst out of a doorway on the other side of Westgate-street. He ran across the road, slipping on the cobbles, and into a lane below the Fleece. The sobbing continued. Mrs Frant tugged her arm, trying to free it from my grasp, but I would not let her.
“Wait,” I said. “Let me investigate first.”
“We shall go together,” she said, and I knew that nothing short of brute force would change her mind.
We moved cautiously across the road. The sobbing came from outside an old house used as a bank. We drew nearer. The storeys above projected into the street, and there was enough light to read below the first-floor windows the words
COUNTY FIRE OFFICE
PROVIDENT LIFE OFFICE
“Is anyone there?” Mrs Frant said.
The crying stopped. My eyes made out a patch of deeper darkness among the shadows along the base of the bank’s frontage. I heard a whimper.
“Mrs Johnson?” I said. “Is that you, ma’am?”
“Let me alone, damn you.” Mrs Johnson’s voice was so thick and weary that it was barely recognisable. “Let me die.”
Mrs Frant tore her arm away from mine and knelt beside the unfortunate woman, who lay curled on her side in the bank’s doorway, with flecks of snow on her mantle. “Mrs Johnson, we are come to find you.”
“I do not wish to be found. I wish to stay here.”
“Indeed you shall not. You will catch your death of cold. Are you hurt?”
Mrs Johnson did not answer.
“Come, ma’am, Mr Shield is here too, and you may lean on my arm on one side and his on the other.”
“Let me alone,” Mrs Johnson murmured, but this time there was more habit than conviction in her tone.
“No, of course we shall not,” said Mrs Frant briskly, as though Mrs Johnson were a sick and foolish child. “Lady Ruispidge would worry, so would we all, and that would never do. Let me help you up.”
Between us, Mrs Frant and I raised Mrs Johnson and propped her against the door. Her head lolled against my arm and she muttered something I could not distinguish. Mingling with the unpleasant odours of the street was the sharp tang of brandy.
“Who was the man who ran away?” Mrs Frant said.
“I don’t know,” Mrs Johnson said. “What man?” She jabbed her elbow in my side with unexpected force. “This man? Who are you?”
“My name is Shield, ma’am. I –”
“Oh, yes – the damned tutor.” The voice was slurred but the malignancy as clear as a curse. “You’re no good. No, no, no.”
“You will be more comfortable directly,” Mrs Frant said, ignoring this. “In any case, I did not mean Mr Shield. I meant the man who ran away as we came up to you. Who was he?”
Mrs Johnson did not reply for a moment. Then: “What man? There was no man. No, no, you must be mistaken. Oh, dear God, I feel so ill. So terribly ill.”
She began to weep all the harder. A moment later, she turned to retching, then gave a great groan and vomited. I sprang back just in time to prevent her fouling my greatcoat.
“We must get her to Fendall House,” I said. “A pair of men might carry her upon a door, if we cannot find a cart or a sedan chair.”
“No,” Mrs Frant said. “That would not do. She – she is too ill to be seen like this. Besides, moderate exercise might be beneficial. I believe that if we supported her –”
“Murder,” said Mrs Johnson quietly. “No, no.”
“What is it, ma’am?” Mrs Frant cried. “What do you mean?”
“What – was I dreaming?” Mrs Johnson tried to stand up. “Oh, pray take me home, Mrs Frant. I do not feel at all the thing.”
Mrs Frant pulled and I lifted; and between us we brought Mrs Johnson to her feet. For a moment she swayed to and fro. But her knees held out and she remained upright, clinging to our arms.
“You felt faint,” Mrs Frant said firmly. “That is what we shall say if we encounter anyone on our way back. You felt faint, and no doubt that is why you are not at the ball. I suggested to you that fresh air might be the best medicine, and Mr Shield was obliging enough to escort us while we took a turn up and down the street. Your stomach is upset, and there is the possibility of an inflammation of the bowels.”
Mrs Johnson groaned.
“Do you understand?” Mrs Frant said. “If we meet anyone, pray remain silent. Mr Shield or I will say whatever needs to be said.”
I own that Mrs Frant’s behaviour both surprised and impressed me. I had not anticipated such firmness of character, such presence of mind in a crisis. We made our way slowly, painfully, back to Fendall House. Mrs Johnson leaned heavily on our arms but did not fall. Gradually the fresh air and the motion revived her slightly, and she took more of her weight herself. I glanced down at her as we came into a circle of lamplight, and saw her haggard face, her disordered hair, and, beneath the stained cloak, a bedraggled ball dress. But she had not changed her shoes: in other words, she had never reached the assembly rooms at the Bell: which suggested that she had intended to go to the ball but something, or someone, had diverted her from her purpose.
We walked, or rather staggered, in silence for most of the way, our feet slithering on cobbles made triply treacherous by their covering of snow and by patches of ice. Fortunately the servants were no longer idling outside the King’s Head so we were spared their catcalls. The only people abroad seemed as drunk as Mrs Johnson. They avoided us, and we avoided them. The snowflakes fell even more thickly than before, which was a blessing because the passers-by kept their faces sheltered from the weather.
At Fendall House, we faced another difficulty, that of avoiding servants. We guided our unstable burden into the tunnel-like alley. The little door was still unbolted. The lobby was empty, though there were voices somewhere in the back of the