The Silversmith's Wife _ Sophia Tobin by Sophia Tobin Page A

searing blue sky. His physical reactions gave the lie to his normal stillness. I will not stop, he thought, his stubbornness saving him: I will go forwards, I have decided it. But as they turned off Piccadilly he paused, for half a second, and hoped that Jesse did not notice it.
    The street they found was at once foreign to Alban, and familiar. His memories of it had grown fainter over the years and he had dwelt on it for two nights; flashes of the past, seen through his own eyes when he had been an altogether different man.
    When he had first known Bond Street, Pierre Renard had not owned a shop there. Now Alban tried to think of him dispassionately, as a stranger whom he could at least shade with the neutral respect one gave to the dead. But always, when he thought of Renard he thought of the day he had met Mary, and it was impossible to be neutral. He could not trust his own judgement in the case.
    Today they reached Bond Street at an early hour, so there were no throngs of fashionable shoppers as there would be later in the day, and he was tempted to stand still and look around, to place the template of his memory over the subtly changed landscape.
    Alban was thankful for his cousin’s presence. Had Jesse not been there, he suspected he would not have turned down the street at all, would have instead kept walking down Piccadilly. He would have been the Alban of old, taking himself away, dissolving into the tides of London, lost in the comfort of being anonymous. He would not have gone far; perhaps only to St James’s Piccadilly where, he thought, if he would not pray because he believed in nothing, he could at least find silence.
    Jesse said nothing and they continued walking, until he put his arm out and halted Alban. ‘There,’ he said, and pointed to a handsome double dwelling on the other side of the street. The building had bowed windows chequered with fine glass and their surface rippled and caught the light. Alban noticed that the windows were empty, and the shelves draped with black velvet.
    Alban found his cousin watching him with nervous intensity. ‘It’s Renard’s, yes?’ he said, and Jesse nodded. ‘So why are we standing here?’ Alban said.
    ‘You think I don’t have a memory?’ said Jesse. ‘You’re a close one, alright. But I know why you went back to Chester all those years ago. She lives, you know. But she is much altered.’
    Suddenly Alban had an image of Mary as a plump matron, surrounded by Renard’s unattractive children. ‘Should I laugh or cry?’ he asked.
    ‘Make a jest of it if you wish,’ said Jesse.
    They crossed the street, dodging a carriage, and Jesse tapped on the window of the shop, catching the eye of a dark-haired man in the shadows, who came straight to the door. Alban could feel the tension vibrate through him; he felt sick in his stomach. But, once inside, the shop was empty, the only noise someone whistling in the small workshop beyond. Alban felt suddenly empty and deflated. Trust you, he thought, anticipating everything when really there is nothing. He looked around the fine, handsome room, its walls covered with glazed presses. A long counter displaying trays of mourning rings, jewellery and seals was dotted with pale marks; fingerprints, he realized, and when he saw Jesse looking at them too, he warranted Pierre Renard would have had them cleaned away.
    Jesse introduced the man as John Grisa, Renard’s shop manager. He was a slim man with quick, dark eyes, a mobile, expressive face, and dextrous hands in constant motion. He nodded to Alban, and even Alban could see the spark of interest in his eye.
    ‘My poor Monsieur Renard,’ Grisa said, and with a flourish produced a square of silk that he used to dab his dry eyes. ‘We found his will earlier today.’
    ‘May we present our condolences to Mrs Renard?’ said Jesse. He glanced at Alban, who was staring stolidly at the floor in front of him.
    Grisa clicked his tongue.
‘Non, non,
there is no need for