He stamped across the floor and Mrs Kerridge opened the door for him. From the ground floor came a muffled knock on the front door and the subdued murmur of voices.
‘Ah,’ Carswall said, cocking his head, suddenly all attention. ‘That lawyer fellow, at last, unless Frant’s back early. If it’s Fishlake, I’ll deal with him.’
‘My love,’ Mrs Frant said to Charlie, ‘it is time for you to go to bed. Kiss your uncle goodnight, and then perhaps Mr Shield will go upstairs with you. We must not inconvenience him any further, must we?’
Charlie detached himself from his mother’s chair. I saw his face in that instant, saw him screwing up his courage for what had to be done. He bent over the figure in the bed and brushed his lips against the pale forehead. He backed away and, avoiding his mother’s embrace, walked unsteadily towards me.
George Wavenhoe coughed. Flora gasped, and all of us turned suddenly towards the bed. The old man stirred and opened his eyes. ‘Goodnight, dear boy,’ he said softly but with perfect clarity. ‘And sweet dreams.’
I DREAMT ABOUT George Wavenhoe as I lay in my bed several floors above him: and in my dream I watched him sign the codicil yet again, and watched his little yellow fingers clutch the pen; and in my dream the nails had grown and become claws, and I wondered why no one had clipped them. I woke to the news that he was dead.
Mrs Frant summoned me to the breakfast room. Her face was pale, her eyes rimmed red with weeping, and she did not look at me but addressed the coal scuttle. She and Mr Frant, she said, had decided that Charlie should stay with them in Russell-square until after Mr Wavenhoe’s funeral. She thanked me for my trouble and told me she had ordered the carriage to take me back to school.
The conversation left a sour taste in my mouth. She had made me feel like a servant, I told myself, which to all intents and purposes I was. I packed my few belongings, said goodbye to Charlie and was driven back to Stoke Newington.
As the days slipped past, I tried to absorb myself in the life of the school. But I found it hard not to think about the Frants, the Carswalls and Mr Wavenhoe. Mrs Frant and Miss Carswall filled my thoughts far more than was entirely proper. And there was much that puzzled me: what had Salutation Harmwell and Mr Noak to do with all this? Was it true that Miss Carswall was her father’s natural daughter?
Nor could I ignore Mr Carswall’s behaviour. Though Mr Wavenhoe had certainly signed the codicil which I had witnessed, and Mrs Frant and the physician had seemed perfectly satisfied as to the correctness of Mr Carswall’s conduct, had the old man known what he was signing? I was not easy in my mind. There was nothing one could call suspicious, exactly, but there was much to arouse curiosity, to raise doubts.
To make matters worse, a trickle of intelligence from the newspapers and certain of Mr Bransby’s correspondents revealed that Mr Rowsell’s forebodings had been amply justified. Something was very wrong at Wavenhoe’s Bank. There were reports that it might close its doors and refuse payments. Mr Wavenhoe’s death had caused a crisis in confidence. I did not appreciate how swiftly events were moving until some ten days after I returned from Albemarle-street. By this time Mr Wavenhoe was buried, and Charlie had returned to school, wearing mourning but in other respects apparently untouched by the experience.
After morning school, I strolled into the village, as was my habit if the weather was dry. A green and gold carriage, drawn by a pair of chestnuts, pulled up beside me in the High-street. The glass slid down, and Miss Carswall looked out.
‘Mr Shield – this is a pleasure I had not anticipated.’
I raised my hat and bowed. ‘Miss Carswall – nor had I. Are you come to see your cousin?’
‘Yes, indeed – Mr Frant wrote to Mr Bransby; he is to have a night in town. But I am somewhat early. I would not wish to arrive before my time. Schoolboys are such creatures of habit, are they not? I wonder if I might prevail upon you to show me a little of the village and the surrounding country? I am sure it will be better to keep the horses moving.’
I disclaimed any topographical information of value but said I would be glad to show her what I could. The footman let down the steps and I climbed into the carriage. Flora Carswall slid along the seat into the corner to give me room.
‘How very obliging of you, Mr Shield,’ she said, toying with an auburn curl. ‘And how fortunate that I should encounter you.’
‘Fortunate?’ I said softly.
She coloured most becomingly. ‘Charlie mentioned that you often take the air after morning school.’
‘Fortunate for me, at least,’ I said with a smile. ‘As it was the other day, when we met in Piccadilly.’
Miss Carswall smiled back, and I knew my guess had hit the mark: she had followed me from Albemarle-street that afternoon. ‘I suppose that sometimes one must give fortune a nudge,’ she said. ‘Don’t you agree? And I own that I am glad to have the opportunity for a private conference with you. Would you – would you tell John coachman to drive out of the village for a mile or two?’
I obeyed.
She cleared her throat and went on, ‘I am afraid the bank is in a bad way.’
‘I have seen something of that in the newspapers.’
‘It is even worse than is generally supposed. Pray do not mention this to a living soul but my father is quite shocked. He had not realised – that is to say, there is serious cause for alarm. It seems that a number of bills were due at about this time, some for very large sums of money, and in the normal course of affairs, they would have been extended. But no: the creditors wish to be paid immediately. And then, to make matters worse, we had assumed – indeed the whole world had assumed – that Mr Wavenhoe was a very wealthy man. But it appears that this was no longer the case at the time of his death.’
‘I’m sorry to hear this. May I ask why –?’
‘Why I am telling you? Because I – I was concerned about what happened on the evening Mr Wavenhoe died. My father often appears high-handed, I regret to say. He is a man who is used to his own way. Those of us who know him make allowances, but to a stranger it can seem – it can seem other than it really is.’
‘I witnessed a signature, Miss Carswall. That is all.’
‘You saw Mr Wavenhoe sign, did you not? And you yourself signed immediately afterwards? And you could testify that there was no coercion involved, and that Mr Wavenhoe was in his right mind and knew what he was doing?’
Until now her hands had been inside her muff. As she spoke, in her agitation, she took out her right hand and laid it on my sleeve. Almost immediately she realised what she had done and with a gasp she withdrew it.
‘I can certainly testify to that, Miss Carswall. But surely others can do the same? The doctor’s word would naturally carry more weight than mine, and Mrs Frant’s, too.’
‘It is possible that Mr Frant may dispute the codicil,’ she said, colouring again, and more deeply. ‘You know how it is with families, I daresay: a disputed inheritance can wreak the most fearful havoc.’
I said gently, ‘This codicil, Miss Carswall: why should Mr Frant wish to dispute it?’
‘I will be frank with you, Mr Shield. It concerns the disposition of a property in Gloucester which had belonged, I believe, to Mr Wavenhoe’s grandmother, that is to say to the grandmother whom he shared with my father. Mr Wavenhoe was sentimentally attached to it on that account, for he had childhood memories of the place. I understand from my father that it is in fact the only one of his properties that is not encumbered with a mortgage. And the codicil now bequeaths it to me.’
‘May I ask who would have received it if Mr Wavenhoe had not signed the codicil?’
‘I’m not