The shabby little chaise from the inn brought me to London. The vehicle creaked and groaned as though afflicted with arthritis. The seat was lumpy, the leather torn and stained. The interior smelt of old tobacco and unwashed bodies and vinegar. The ostler who was driving me swore at the horse, a steady stream of obscenity punctuated by the snapping of the whip. As we drove, the daylight drained away from the afternoon. By the time we reached Russell-square, the sky was heavy with dark, swirling clouds the colour of smudged ink.
My knock was answered by a footman, who showed me into the dining room to wait. Because of the weather and the lateness of the afternoon, the room was in near darkness. I turned my back on the portrait. Rain was now falling on the square, fat drops of water that smacked on to the roadway and tapped like drumbeats on the roof of the carriages. I heard voices in the hall, and the slam of a door.
A moment later the footman returned. “Mr Frant will see you now,” he said, and jerked his head for me to follow him.
He led me across the marble chequerboard of the hall to a door which opened as we approached. The butler emerged.
“You are to desire Master Charles to step this way,” he told the footman.
The footman strode away. The butler took me into a small and square apartment, furnished as a book-room. Henry Frant was seated at a bureau, pen in hand, and did not look up. The shutters were up and candles burned in sconces above the fireplace and in a candelabrum on a table by the window.
The nib scratched on the paper. The candlelight glinted on Frant’s signet ring and the touches of silver in his hair. At length he sat back, re-read what he had written, sanded the paper, and folded it. As he opened one of the drawers of the bureau, I noticed that he was missing the top joints of the forefinger on his left hand, a blemish on his perfection which pleased me. At least, I thought, I have something that you have not. He slipped the paper in the drawer.
“Open the cupboard on the left of the fireplace,” he said without looking at me. “Below the shelves. You will find a stick in the right-hand corner.”
I obeyed him. It was a walking-stick, a stout malacca cane with a silver handle and a brass-shod point.
“Twelve good hard strokes, I think,” Mr Frant observed. He indicated a low stool with his pen. “Mount him over that, with his face towards me.”
“Sir, the stick is too heavy for the purpose.”
“You will find it answers admirably. Use it with the full force of your arm. I desire to teach the boy a lesson.”
“Two older boys set on him at school,” I said. “That is why he ran away.”
“He ran away because he is weak. I do not say he is a coward, not yet; but he might become one if indulged. Pray make it clear to Mr Bransby that I do not expect the school to indulge his weaknesses any more than I do.” There was a knock on the door. He raised his voice. “Come in.”
The butler opened the door. The boy edged into the room.
“Sir,” he began in a small, high voice. “I hope I find you in good health, and –”
“Be silent,” Frant said. “Wait until you are spoken to.”
The butler stood in the doorway, as if waiting for orders. In the hall behind were the footman and the little Negro pageboy. I glimpsed Mrs Kerridge on the stairs.
Frant looked beyond his son and saw the servants. “Well?” he snapped. “What are you gaping at? Do you not have work to do? Be off with you.”
At that moment the doorbell rang. The servants jerked towards it, as though attached to the sound by a set of strings. There was another ring, followed immediately by knocking. The footman glanced over his shoulder at the butler, who looked at Mr Frant, who squeezed his lips together in a tight, horizontal line and nodded. The footman scurried to the front door.
Mrs Frant slipped into the hall before the door was more than a foot or two ajar. A maid followed her in. Mrs Frant’s colour was high as if she had been running, and she clutched her cloak to her throat. She darted across the squares of marble to the door of the book-room, where she stopped suddenly on the threshold, as though confronted by an invisible barrier. For a moment nobody spoke. Mrs Frant’s grey travelling cloak slipped from her shoulders to the floor.
“Madam,” Frant said, standing up and bowing. “I’m rejoiced to see you.”
Mrs Frant looked up at her husband but said nothing. He was a tall, broad man and beside him she looked as defenceless as a child.
“Allow me to name Mr Shield, one of Mr Bransby’s under-masters.”
I bowed; she inclined her head.
Frant said, “You are come from Albemarle-street? I hope I should not infer from this unexpected visit that Mr Wavenhoe has taken a turn for the worse?”
She glanced wildly at him. “No – that is to say, yes, in that he is no worse and may even be slightly better.”
“What gratifying intelligence. Now, Mrs Frant, I do not know whether you are aware that your son has chosen to pay us an unauthorised visit from his school. He is about to pay the penalty for this, and then Mr Shield will convey him back to Stoke Newington.”
Mrs Frant glanced at me, and saw the malacca cane in my hand. I looked at the boy, who was shaking like a shirt on a washing line.
“May I speak with you, sir?” she said. “A word in private?”
“I am afraid that at present I am not at leisure. Pray allow me to wait on you in the drawing room when Mr Shield and Charles have left us.”
“No,” Mrs Frant said so softly that I could hardly hear her. “I must ask you –”
There came another ring on the doorbell.
“Confound it,” Frant said. “Mr Shield, would you excuse us for a moment? Frederick will show you into the dining room. Close the door of this room, Loomis. Then see who that is. Neither Mrs Frant nor I are at home.”
I propped the cane against a bookcase and went into the hall. Mrs Kerridge moved towards the back of the house, shooing the maid before her. Loomis pulled open the front door. I glanced over his shoulder.
For an instant, I thought it was much later than it really was. Rain was now falling heavily over the square from a sky as black as coal. Through the doorway came the smell of freshly watered dust, and the hissing and pattering of the rain. The brief illusion of night was reinforced by an enormous umbrella stretching across the width of the doorway. Below it I glimpsed a small, grey man in a snuff-coloured coat.
“My name is Mr Noak,” announced the newcomer in a hard, nasal voice. “Pray inform Mr Frant that I am here.”
“Mr Frant is not at home, sir. If you would like to leave your –”
“Nonsense, man. They told me at his place of business he was here. He is expecting me.”
The little man stepped into the hall and Loomis gave ground before him. Beside me, Frederick drew a sharp intake of breath, presumably at this breach of decorum, this frontal assault on Mr Loomis’s authority. Noak was followed by another man, much taller and perhaps twice his weight, who backed into the hall, lowering, collapsing and shaking the umbrella. He turned round, holding out the dripping umbrella to Frederick. This fellow was a Negro, though not so dark as the pageboy and with a more European cast of features. He took off his hat, revealing close-cropped grey hair. His dark eyes examined the hallway, resting for a moment on me.
“Convey my card to Mr Frant,” Noak said, unbuttoning his coat and feeling in an inner pocket. “Stay a moment.