Free The Silversmith's Wife _ Sophia Tobin by Sophia Tobin

for years,’ she said.
    ‘Thanks to Pierre,’ said Mallory. ‘But she will come readily enough now. She is needed; you cannot live here without a companion. You are causing enough talk as it is. I found your girl Ellen out on the street, gossiping. I heard her tell Alice Barber that her mistress is not right in the head. And though I gave her a good talking to, I can see why she thinks it. You are active enough in your sleep, it seems, locking and unlocking doors, moving the furniture; but now, when action is called for, you are sitting here, staring at nothing, letting a group of so-called gentlemen take your shop apart.’
    There was a crash, and the sound of a man’s voice damning everything to hell.
    Mary swallowed Ellen’s betrayal. ‘I promised her extra tea and sugar for her trouble,’ she said. ‘I cannot offer an explanation for what I do in my sleep. That she speaks of it on the street . . .’ She wrapped her shawl tighter around her. ‘Perhaps Pierre was right. He always said that, left unchecked, people would become unruly and out of hand.’
    Mallory said nothing for a moment, and Mary guessed that she had been shocked into silence because she agreed with Pierre.
    ‘Did I see one of your lodgers dragging his trunk along Bond Street?’ she said, after a moment.
    ‘Mr Pickering?’ said Mary. ‘Yes, you did. He says he will not stay. He feels the chill of death in this house, and claims he heard Pierre’s footsteps the other night.’
    ‘Fool,’ said Mallory.
    ‘Do you think so?’ said Mary. ‘I am in agreement with him.’
    Mallory ignored her. ‘Have you opened the boxes for them?’ she said. Mary nodded. Pierre had kept his documents in a number of secure chests, soundly locked and stowed in the cellar with the plate chests.
    ‘I thought so. Give me your keys,’ said Mallory. ‘I will watch over them while they look.’ As Mary handed her the keys Mallory could not help one further burst of advice. ‘When will you learn?’ she said. ‘Your servants live to rob you. Bright Hemmings is probably in the back yard with a hand cart.’ She turned, with an exhalation that sounded like a sigh, and ran through the door down the stairs quickly and lightly.
    Mary settled back in her chair. The house felt like a galleon in full sail, groaning and creaking, voices rising and falling in every room. In Pierre’s lifetime, the inhabitants of the house had done their best to be quiet, by the master’s command. Though he didn’t seem to mind the noise of the workshop and the sound of the hammer on metal, within his home Pierre had been sensitive to every voice and footstep. He had even sent a maid packing because she was too heavy-footed. The household had been muffled, everyone closing doors quietly, keeping their voices lowered, as though in mourning. Now, when everyone was dressed in black, they seemed to be making enough noise to wake the dead.
    After a few minutes Mary decided to follow Mallory The shop door was closed, and as she came down the stairs she saw that beyond the velvet-draped window Bond Street was quiet. The inhabitants of her house were concentrating their attention on the workshop, and the passage that ran between the front door and the cellar. Grisa saw her first, and fell silent. Then they all turned, one by one, and looked at her as though she was a ghost.
    Taylor was holding a document in his hand, holding it with his fingertips as though he did not want to sully it. Mary saw the large dollop of sealing wax on it. There was more wax there than necessary: Pierre must have poured it on with his trembling, feverish hands, and caught it with the side of his hand as he sealed it, so a smear lay across the parchment, the colour of dried blood. She came through the group, Grisa and Mallory moving aside, then Taylor’s assistant.
    ‘You have found it,’ she said.
    ‘Quite so, my dear,’ Taylor replied.
    ‘Holy Jesus!’ cried Grisa. Everyone followed his gaze, turning to see a