The Scent of Death by Andrew Taylor

was as if, I thought later, we had been on the verge of being discovered in some shameful assignation. Miriam was coming down the garden with a lantern in her hand.
    ‘Good girl,’ Mrs Arabella said. ‘I was about to ring for candles.’
    Miriam made her obedience in the doorway. ‘No, ma’am, it’s master. He begs you to join him in the library.’
    ‘But I thought he had retired.’
    ‘He came down again, ma’am. Major Marryot’s called.’
    ‘So late? And why should they want me?’
    ‘I’m sure I don’t know.’
    Mrs Arabella rose to her feet. ‘I suppose I must find out what they want. But do not disturb yourself, Mr Savill. Shall we play backgammon when I come back? I need diversion – I do not feel at all sleepy yet.’
    I said that nothing would give me more pleasure.
    ‘Then that is settled. Miriam – light me into the house and then bring candles for Mr Savill directly. You will find the backgammon board under that seat in the corner, sir. Or Miriam will fetch it out for you.’
    The two women set off for the house. After a moment I went over to the corner and put my hand into the darkness under the seat. The smell of lemon juice and vinegar was stronger here. The Wintour ladies were good housekeepers. I felt the outlines of the backgammon box and drew it out. I laid it on the table and opened it. It was too dark to see the counters clearly.
    I did not have long to wait. Miriam came down the path with a candelabra, its candles unlit, a taper and the lantern. She put them on the table beside the backgammon board but made no move to light the candles. Her hands were shaking.
    ‘If it please your honour,’ she said, ‘I think mistress will stay in the house now.’
    ‘It doesn’t matter. I shall come in myself in that case.’ I rose to my feet and, as I did so, the woman clutched the edge of the table. ‘Is something wrong, Miriam?’
    ‘Oh, sir, it’s the Captain.’
    ‘But I thought you said Major Marryot had called.’
    ‘Yes, sir,’ Miriam said, stumbling over her words. ‘He brought the news. Mr John, sir. Captain Wintour.’
    It took me a moment to realize what she meant. ‘Oh, I’m so sorry. Such distressing—’
    ‘No, sir, it’s not that. Mr John ain’t dead. He’s alive.’

Chapter Fifteen
    The first week in New York stretched into a month and then to another. I found myself imperceptibly adjusting to my situation until it appeared almost unremarkable.
    The war coloured everything and nothing. Perhaps it had been like this in Troy for most of the ten years that city had been invested by the Greeks. Perhaps in Troy, as in New York, life had continued much as usual in the long intervals between battles. It almost made a man wonder whether the battles were necessary in the first place.
    In October, Mr Rampton wrote with what he said was good news. Lord George Germain had been pleased to say with the kindest condescension imaginable that he had glanced over a memorandum I had composed before leaving for New York, and thought it a model of its kind. The Department would benefit greatly from a man of Mr Savill’s proven abili-ties as its eyes and ears in New York.
    This being so, His Lordship desires me to communicate to you his wish that you should remain in New York for a few months more. Since a winter passage would not be at all agreeable for you, I took the liberty of suggesting that we should therefore extend your commission until the March or April. Who knows, by that time the rebels may have capitulated. We hear on every side that the Continental troops are deserting in droves because Congress cannot pay them except in their own worthless dollars.
    My dear Savill, what a feather in your cap is this! Matters are turning out just as I had hoped. In haste, for the messenger is about to post to Falmouth to catch the packet before it sails with the August mail, believe me
    Truly yours, HR.
    At first I could not but be pleased that my abilities had earned such approval –