Free Tom All-Alone's by Lynn Shepherd Page B

Mrs McLeod has had quite the opposite effect on the old man. Of course – he lives in one of those very rooms downstairs that Charles has just been casually disposing of. Charles quickly gets to his feet and moves towards him. ‘I do hope you’ll stay too, Abel,’ he says, putting his hand on Stornaway’s arm. ‘It may take my uncle a while to get used to so many new faces, and having you here will be a great comfort. And not only to him. To me, as well.’
    The old man smiles, showing the gap in his front teeth that he’s had for all the years that Charles has known him. ‘Whatever ye say, Mr Charles, whatever ye say.’
    Â 
    A little less than two miles away, as the London crows fly, in an immense but dreary house, in a dull but elegant street, a great lady is bored to death. My Lady Dedlock may partake of the finest entertainment London affords, by night or by day, but finds not the least diversion in any of it. This boredom of hers is a chronic condition, and has been much magnified this evening by a correspondence that will insist on obtruding on her notice. She sits by the fire in her boudoir, glancing wearily at the letter in her hand. Having acquired a great quantity of relations on the occasion of her marriage, and mostly of the poor variety, she has, it must be admitted, very little consideration to spare for those belonging to her acquaintance, and finds it incomprehensible that she should even be applied to on such an ineffably tedious subject.
    There is a knock at the door. The footman. Mr Tulkinghorn is downstairs, my Lady. Mr Tulkinghorn, would, if it please my Lady, be grateful for a few minutes’ conversation. Will my Lady receive him, if the time is convenient? It would appear that it is not, for she heaves a silent sigh, and for a moment it seems that the request will be refused. But it is not. She will see him.
    She gives this acquiescence in her usual haughty and careless manner, but when the door closes, there is an expression on her face that is unaccountable in one so high, so admired, and holding so unassailable a position at the centre of the fashionable world. But so it is. And so it is, also, that when the insignificant little man in the old-fashioned black waistcoat is ushered into the room a few moments later and stands before her, her lips are white and her voice, for a moment, falters. For a moment only, but this man has a practised eye in such matters. He sees, moreover, that the letter she was reading – whose handwriting is, perhaps, familiar to him – lies now on her dressing-table, discarded and forgotten. These are, in themselves, but the smallest of signs and tokens, but Mr Tulkinghorn can reckon their value, and to the last farthing.

Chapter Five
Signs and Tokens
    M oving Charles’ paraphernalia of personal effects proves to be a rather larger job than can be accomplished in a single morning. Thunder the cat likewise takes a good deal of persuading to leave his comfortable and accustomed billet and suffer the ignominy of being carried in a wicker basket halfway across town, banging every stride against his master’s knee. But by early evening a stack of boxes and trunks has finally been hauled up the stairs in Buckingham Street to the large bare resounding room at the top of the house, which Mrs McLeod has spent much of the day cleaning. And when she hasn’t been scrubbing and washing she’s been at the nearby hiring-office, picking out two candidates for Charles to inspect. The lad, Billy, seems both sensible and sturdy, with an open good-natured face and a ready grin. The girl could hardly be more different. She is small, almost too fragile for the heavy chores she will have to do daily, up and down four flights of stairs. But she is capable and accustomed to hard work – or so the manager of the hiring-office insists.
    â€˜I know that’s what they always claim,’ says Mrs McLeod, conciliatory, ‘but