‘Almost certainly it is,’ Rampton said. ‘But the Government believes these are dangerous people. One should take nothing for granted.’ The fingers fluttered to alight upon another sheet of paper. ‘Say, for example, you should desire to communicate with me while you are at Charnwood. Do not write to me here or at Vardells. Address the letter to Frederick Brown, Esquire, at the White Horse Cellar in Piccadilly, to await collection. I have made a memorandum here.’
Savill said, ‘Who is Mr Brown?’
‘There is no Mr Brown, as such. He is a convenient fiction. I must emphasize that my name must not appear in this in any way. It would be prejudicial to the Government.’
‘Why, sir?’
‘I’m afraid I am not at liberty to say.’ Rampton smiled across the desk. ‘Now – this is an inside ticket to Bath, on the mail diligence. I understand that Charnwood is fifteen or twenty miles from the city. You will have to hire a conveyance to take you on to Charnwood. And perhaps on your way back with the boy, you will find it easier to hire a chaise at Bath and travel post up to London.’
Rampton unlocked another drawer and took out a small canvas roll. He placed it on the desk, where it lay like a grey sausage.
‘Fifty guineas in gold,’ he said. ‘You must sign for it, of course, and we will require a full account of any monies you disperse. The sum should be ample, but in case of emergency here is a letter to Mr Green of Green’s Bank in Bath. It will authorize you to withdraw further funds. But I do not think you will need to trouble him.’
Savill took the papers and looked through them. Rampton pushed pen and ink towards him. Savill signed receipts for the money and the papers. He stowed them both in an inner pocket. He felt the weight of the gold dragging him down.
‘There’s more to this than the boy,’ he said.
‘I beg your pardon?’ Rampton said. ‘I don’t follow you.’
‘All this. The money. This deed. The warrant. Your Mr Brown.’
‘My dear sir, you are allowing your fancies to run away with you.’ Rampton sat back and stared at Savill. Then, unexpectedly, he smiled. ‘I have been quite candid with you. I want to restore Charles to his family. I want to bring him up as my heir. All these precautions are necessary solely because of the peculiar nature of his present guardians – and, indeed, the delicate nature of my own employment. Is all this so very strange?’
‘Pray, sir,’ Savill said, ‘what exactly is the business of this office?’
‘What? Oh, there’s no mystery about that. We are a sub-department of the Post Office. We are known as the Foreign Office, or the Black Letter Office, because we handle the foreign mails.’ Rampton rang a bell on his desk. ‘While you are here, it may be helpful for you to hear a little more about Charnwood.’
Malbourne entered the room. He inclined his head. ‘Sir?’
‘Charnwood Court, Malbourne – who owns the freehold?’
‘A lady named Mrs West, sir, the widow of the brewer. She resides at Norbury Park, I believe, when she is in the country. Charnwood is a house on the Norbury estate.’ Malbourne cleared his throat. ‘When she was in town in the spring, she was often seen in the company of Monsieur Fournier. In fact, I believe it was he who arranged the tenancy, and it is his name on the lease.’
‘That backsliding priest,’ Rampton said. ‘A traitor to his God as well as to his king.’
‘Yes, sir. He arrived in England after the massacres in September. I believe he took the lease for Charnwood in the spring, which suggests he is remarkably far-sighted. He declines to call himself an émigré, however.’
‘In other words, he’s sitting on the fence,’ Rampton said. ‘Waiting to see what happens with the King. Besides, most of his wealth is in France and he doesn’t want to lose it if he can help it. But he’s a clever devil, Savill – if he’s at Charnwood, he’s a man to watch.’
Malbourne cleared his throat. ‘And a charming devil, sir, as well. Monsieur Fournier is a man of great address and he is very adroit at worming his way into intimacy with those who he believes may further his interests.’
‘What if Mr Savill needs to summon a magistrate to enforce his claim?’
‘He should communicate with Mr Horton, sir, the Vicar of Norbury. He is the nearest Justice now. The village is less than a mile from Charnwood.’
Rampton turned to Savill. ‘The coach leaves tomorrow. You should be back with Charles by Saturday at the latest.’
Malbourne showed Savill out. The porter in the outer hall did not move from his stool when the inner door opened. His eyes were closed.
Malbourne stopped. ‘Jarsdel!’
The eyes snapped open. ‘Sir?’
‘Stand up and make your obedience, damn you.’
The porter rose from his stool with the caution of a snail emerging from his shell. He bowed ponderously.
‘This gentleman is Mr Savill,’ Malbourne told him. ‘He is a particular friend of Mr Rampton’s. If he calls again, you are to admit him directly and show him every courtesy. Is that understood?’
Malbourne followed Savill down the steps and on to the pavement.
‘I beg your pardon, sir,’ he said. ‘Jarsdel’s an insolent fellow. It amuses Mr Rampton to make a pet of him, and he’s inclined to give himself airs in consequence. If we do not bring him up occasionally, he grows intolerable.’
Savill smiled and nodded, but said nothing.
‘I hope your journey prospers,’ Malbourne went on.
All that money, Savill thought, all those papers – and all this for a little boy.
‘I wonder what it is you really do here, sir,’ he said.
Malbourne glanced back at the house and smiled: and that was all the answer he gave. ‘I wish you a safe journey, sir,’ he said. ‘And a happy return.’
It took Savill over twelve hours to travel by the mail coach from London to Bath. Most of that time it rained.
He spent the night in Bath at the Three Tuns inn. It was still raining in the morning, when he hired a gig to take him to Norbury, with a groom to drive him. The owner of the livery stable told him that the village’s situation was remote, far from the nearest post road.
The chaise was open to the elements. Savill sat behind the driver. Despite his great coat, a travelling cloak, top boots and a broad-brimmed hat, the rain found ways to reach his skin.
Their road was narrow and winding; the rain filled the ruts with puddles and turned the higher parts to mud. The country was generously provided with hills, which no doubt would have afforded a variety of fine prospects if the rain and the mist had permitted Savill to see them.
As the day passed, they laboured on, mile after mile. The driver muttered under his breath. The horse was a tired, broken-down creature that seemed incapable of going much beyond a foot-pace. They stopped twice, ostensibly to rest the unhappy animal but really for the groom to dose himself against rheumatic fever with gin and hot water.
There was said to be an inn at Norbury. Savill had intended to put up there, order his dinner and then call at Charnwood Court to make the necessary arrangements to take the boy away in the morning. But he realized that he had been too optimistic before they had covered half their distance. They would be lucky to reach the village before evening.
The light was already beginning to fade when they came to a small but