but a little thing Mr Poll hands it to Charles for us to read. It is from Sir Astley, informing Mr Poll of the results of an autopsy conducted on a woman who was, until two days past, a patient of ours.
‘Caley was to bring us her body,’ Charles says, and Mr Poll nods. No love is lost between him and his rival, whose fine manners and vanity play ill with Mr Poll; there can be little doubt Sir Astley’s letter is intended to provoke, despite its air of generosity. For a second or two Mr Poll considers, then he looks to me.
‘Fetch Mr Tyne,’ he says. ‘Tell him I would speak with him.’
Mr Tyne is in the room below. He looks up as I enter. Though with Mr Poll his manner is unchanged, in regard to me I have felt a change in him since the night of Lucan’s visit, a hardening of some suspicion. Told of Sir Astley’s letter and asked how this might be, when the body wasrequested of Caley only two nights ago, he says he knows naught of it.
Tight-lipped Mr Poll dispatches him to find Caley and seek some explanation, but he returns with little more than we might have guessed. By Caley’s account the grave in which the woman lay was empty, the body already taken by another. When Mr Poll asks Mr Tyne if Caley might have lied to him, that it might have been Caley himself who sold the body on to Sir Astley’s men, Mr Tyne’s face hardens, the charge dismissed.
‘He is too close to them,’ Charles says, once Mr Tyne has gone.
‘You think he lies for them?’ Mr Poll’s voice is sharp. When none of us replies he lifts his hand.
‘Go,’ he says. ‘I will have no more of this.’
That night, alone in my room, I listen to Mr Poll and Charles speaking below, their voices low and urgent. It is Charles’s view we should raise this thing with Sir Astley, learn how the body came to him, but Mr Poll will not. Against my back the wall is cold, yet it is not the chill of the air that is most keen, but the remembered image of Arabella, the sense of possibilities contained within her as she stood pouring over that bowl. Though I have not chanced on her again she has occupied my thoughts almost constantly. I would ask Charles of her, but his silence on the events of that night seems to forbid it, and my promise to keep the events a secret between ourselves prevents me from inquiring of her with Chifley or Caswell or the others. More than once I have thought I glimpsed her in the streets, moving ahead in a crowd or passing in a carriage, but each time the likeness vanished as Iapproached. Once, alone with Charles in a tavern near Drury Lane, I thought I saw her in conversation with another woman in the street outside, her face distorted by the flaws of the panes, but as she came close she turned away, and although I strained to see her once more I could not, and she was gone.
O UTSIDE D RYDEN’S BOOKSHOP , I come upon May. It is a low, cold day, the streets thick with a freezing mist which seems to grow heavier with the approaching evening. The snow of a week before has melted, the straw that was laid to cover it turned black and slippery with soot and ice.
Though a single misstep would send one sprawling May hurries carelessly, head down and one hand held out, his first finger half-uncurled and waggling slightly as if in preparation for some admonishment or explanation he rehearses in his mind for any who might seek to delay him. Stopping by a door next to the bookshop, he fumbles in his pocket for a key. Without thinking I call out his name. At once he looks up.
‘Gabriel,’ he cries, shaking my hand delightedly.
I grin, disarmed by his enthusiasm. Several weeks have passed since he last accompanied us on one of our adventures and I am surprised to realise I have missed him.
‘What brings you here?’
‘An errand for my master,’ I reply. ‘And you? Where are you bound?’
‘Home,’ he says. ‘Here.’ He points to the door.
‘In such a hurry?’ I ask, laughing.
At this he is suddenly less certain. ‘I
‘Caley was to bring us her body,’ Charles says, and Mr Poll nods. No love is lost between him and his rival, whose fine manners and vanity play ill with Mr Poll; there can be little doubt Sir Astley’s letter is intended to provoke, despite its air of generosity. For a second or two Mr Poll considers, then he looks to me.
‘Fetch Mr Tyne,’ he says. ‘Tell him I would speak with him.’
Mr Tyne is in the room below. He looks up as I enter. Though with Mr Poll his manner is unchanged, in regard to me I have felt a change in him since the night of Lucan’s visit, a hardening of some suspicion. Told of Sir Astley’s letter and asked how this might be, when the body wasrequested of Caley only two nights ago, he says he knows naught of it.
Tight-lipped Mr Poll dispatches him to find Caley and seek some explanation, but he returns with little more than we might have guessed. By Caley’s account the grave in which the woman lay was empty, the body already taken by another. When Mr Poll asks Mr Tyne if Caley might have lied to him, that it might have been Caley himself who sold the body on to Sir Astley’s men, Mr Tyne’s face hardens, the charge dismissed.
‘He is too close to them,’ Charles says, once Mr Tyne has gone.
‘You think he lies for them?’ Mr Poll’s voice is sharp. When none of us replies he lifts his hand.
‘Go,’ he says. ‘I will have no more of this.’
That night, alone in my room, I listen to Mr Poll and Charles speaking below, their voices low and urgent. It is Charles’s view we should raise this thing with Sir Astley, learn how the body came to him, but Mr Poll will not. Against my back the wall is cold, yet it is not the chill of the air that is most keen, but the remembered image of Arabella, the sense of possibilities contained within her as she stood pouring over that bowl. Though I have not chanced on her again she has occupied my thoughts almost constantly. I would ask Charles of her, but his silence on the events of that night seems to forbid it, and my promise to keep the events a secret between ourselves prevents me from inquiring of her with Chifley or Caswell or the others. More than once I have thought I glimpsed her in the streets, moving ahead in a crowd or passing in a carriage, but each time the likeness vanished as Iapproached. Once, alone with Charles in a tavern near Drury Lane, I thought I saw her in conversation with another woman in the street outside, her face distorted by the flaws of the panes, but as she came close she turned away, and although I strained to see her once more I could not, and she was gone.
O UTSIDE D RYDEN’S BOOKSHOP , I come upon May. It is a low, cold day, the streets thick with a freezing mist which seems to grow heavier with the approaching evening. The snow of a week before has melted, the straw that was laid to cover it turned black and slippery with soot and ice.
Though a single misstep would send one sprawling May hurries carelessly, head down and one hand held out, his first finger half-uncurled and waggling slightly as if in preparation for some admonishment or explanation he rehearses in his mind for any who might seek to delay him. Stopping by a door next to the bookshop, he fumbles in his pocket for a key. Without thinking I call out his name. At once he looks up.
‘Gabriel,’ he cries, shaking my hand delightedly.
I grin, disarmed by his enthusiasm. Several weeks have passed since he last accompanied us on one of our adventures and I am surprised to realise I have missed him.
‘What brings you here?’
‘An errand for my master,’ I reply. ‘And you? Where are you bound?’
‘Home,’ he says. ‘Here.’ He points to the door.
‘In such a hurry?’ I ask, laughing.
At this he is suddenly less certain. ‘I
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