Free The Scent of Death by Andrew Taylor Page B

remembered from that first evening: otto of roses, mingled with her own peculiar fragrance. As I took the cup and saucer, her finger brushed my hand.
    ‘No more tea for me, my dear,’ Mr Wintour said, struggling to his feet. ‘I must see how Mrs Wintour does and then I shall retire for the night.’
    For a moment we watched the old man picking his way down the path towards the garden door of the house.
    Mrs Arabella stirred in her chair, and the wicker creaked beneath her body. ‘Miriam tells me you went to see that man hanged this morning.’
    ‘Yes, ma’am, I did. A melancholy duty.’
    ‘Did he confess to the murder in the end?’
    ‘I believe not.’
    ‘You would think a man would speak the truth if he knew he was to go before his maker in a few moments.’
    ‘He may have desired to confess, ma’am. But he was not given an opportunity as far as I know. But forgive me – the subject must be painful to you.’
    The wicker creaked again. ‘Yes, of course. Though I barely knew Mr Pickett – but his murder is a terrible thing. Tell me, sir – was it – was it a hard death?’
    I stared at her in the gathering dusk. ‘Mr Pickett’s?’
    ‘No, no – I mean the man who was hanged for the murder.’
    ‘How can it not have been?’ I said, more sharply than I intended.
    ‘I spoke without thinking.’ She sounded upset, though there was not enough light for me to read her expression. ‘But – but there must be degrees in these matters, must there not?’
    ‘It cannot have been easy.’ I remembered Virgil’s clenched fists, the kicking feet and, most vividly of all, the hands that had risen from beneath the scaffold to give the sharp, fatal tug at the slave’s ankles. ‘But it did not take long.’
    She sighed. ‘I am glad of that, at least. Of course they do not have feelings as we do.’
    ‘Who do not?’
    ‘Negros. They are made of coarser clay. Indeed, many of them are little better than beasts of the field. Most negros have no more idea of true religion or morality than the man in the moon.’
    ‘I cannot believe that to be true, madam,’ I said. ‘Their situation may be inferior to ours, their education neglected, but one cannot blame them for that. Indeed, if we blame anyone, surely we must blame ourselves for their shortcomings.’
    She threw back her head and laughed with such spontaneous merriment that I found myself smiling in sympathy. ‘Oh, you would not say that if you knew them as I do, sir.’
    ‘But I have encountered many negros in London, freed men, who—’
    ‘I do not mean all negros, of course,’ she interrupted, ‘or even all slaves, for that matter – for example, I except those like Josiah and Miriam and Abraham – they have lived so long among us as almost to be like us, as far as God permits them to be and allowing for the difference between our station in life and theirs.’
    ‘They are slaves, then? I did not know.’
    ‘They are perfectly content in their condition and give us faithful service. Their loyalty is beyond question. Believe me, sir, Josiah would not have his freedom if Mr Wintour offered it him on a silver platter.’
    A silence fell between us.
    ‘Let us talk to something more agreeable,’ she said at length. ‘Your family, perhaps – I’m sure Mrs Savill is counting the days towards your happy return.’ She spoke seriously but there was an edge of mockery to her words that irritated me. ‘And the other evening you told us that you have a daughter, I think?’
    ‘Yes, ma’am – Elizabeth; she is five years old.’
    There was another silence. Then Mrs Arabella said, in a voice barely above a whisper, ‘It cannot have been easy to leave her and to come all this way. And even worse for her, of course, to lose her papa.’
    The twilight had grown darker. I heard her breathing. How strange, I thought, that she talked of Lizzie missing me, but not Augusta; how strange, and how oddly near the mark.
    A door slammed. Both of us sat up sharply. It