The Scent of Death by Andrew Taylor

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HarperCollinsPublishers

7785 Fulham Palace Road,

Hammersmith, London W6 8JB

www.harpercollins.co.uk

Published by HarperCollinsPublishers20131

Copyright Andrew Taylor 2013

Andrew Taylor asserts the moral right to

be identified as the author of this work

A catalogue record for this book

is available from the British Library

ISBN: 978-0-00-721351-1

Endpapers map credit Nicolette Caven 2012

This novel is entirely a work of fiction.The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are

the work of the authors imagination. Any resemblance to

actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is

entirely coincidental.

Set in Sabon LT Std by Palimpsest Book Production Limited,

Falkirk, Stirlingshire

Printed and bound in Great Britain by

Clays Ltd, St Ives plc

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be

reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted,

in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical,photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior

permission of the publishers.

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from forests that are managed to meet the social, economic and

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Find out more about HarperCollins and the environment atwww.harpercollins.co.uk/green


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To Will with love

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Chapter One

This is the story of a woman and a city. I saw the city first,

glimpsing it from afar as it shimmered like the new Jerusalem

in the light of the setting sun. I smelled the sweetness of the

land and sensed the nearness of green, growing things after

the weeks on the barren ocean. We had just passed through

the narrows between Long and Staten islands and come into

Upper New York Bay. It was Sunday, 2 August 1778.The following morning, Mr Noak and I came up on deck

an hour or two after dawn. The city was now close at hand.

In the hard light of day it lost its celestial qualities and was

revealed as a paltry, provincial sort of place.

We had heard that a conflagration had broken out during

the night. Nevertheless, it came as something of a shock to

see the broad pall of smoke hanging over the southern end of

the island, which was where the city was. The stink of burningwafted across the water. Fires smouldered among the stumps

of blackened buildings. Men scurried along the wharves that

lined the docks. A file of soldiers moved to the beat of an

invisible drum.

Its as if the town has been sacked, I said.

Noak leaned on the rail. The Captain says it must have

been set deliberately, Mr Savill. This is the second fire, you



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know. The other was two years ago. They blamed the rebels

then, just as they do now.

Surely New York is loyal?For some people, sir, loyalty is a commodity, Noak said.

And, like any other commodity, I suppose it can be bought

and sold.

Above the smoke the sky was already a hard clear blue. I

borrowed a glass from a young officer who was taking the

air on deck. Most of the surviving houses of the city were of

brick and tile, four or five storeys and crowned with shingles

painted in a variety of faded colours. Some had balconies on

their roofs, and already I could make out the tiny figures of

people moving about above the streets. Many buildings nearer

the southern tip had steeply gabled Dutch faades, relics of

the days when the town had been called New Amsterdam.

I confess I had expected a finer prospect, I said. Something

more like a city.

It looked well enough before the war, sir. But looks deceive

at the best of times. Believe me, there is great wealth here.

The possibility of profit. And the possibility of so much more.I looked down at the grey-green water running with the

tide along the line of the hull. The oily surface was spotted

with soot carried on the south-westerly breeze. The fire had

broken out in the very early hours of the morning.

A large, pale rag billowed just below the surface of the water.

Seagulls fluttered above it, crying like the souls of the damned.

The rag snagged on a rope trailing from the ship to a dinghy

alongside. The current made the cloth twitch as if alive. A fewyards away from us, the young officer who had lent me his

glass was standing by the rail. He swore under his breath.

The rag had a long tail, barely visible beneath it and entan-

gled with the rope. It made me think of a merman or some

other strange creature of the sea. The officer said a few sharp

words to a sailor who, a moment later, leaned over the side

with a long boathook.



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I looked downstream. In the distance, the seagulls danced

like blackened cinders against the blue sky. The body was no

longer visible. The sea was greedy.As I told you, sir, Noak went on, there is the possibility

of profit here, and that is true even in wartime. Indeed, perhaps

more so than in peace.

This was the first dead body that I saw in New York, and

the first of the two dead men I saw that very day. As an

individual, this one meant nothing to me, then or now. He

and I had nothing in common apart from our shared humanity.

I would never learn his name or how he died or who had

thrown his corpse into the East River.



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Chapter Two

I had met Samuel Noak on the voyage from England.

Mr Rampton, my patron, had arranged my passage on the

Earl of Sandwich, a Post Office packet of which he was part-

owner. The ships principal purpose was to carry the mails to

and from North America and the West Indies. The owners

supplemented the considerable income they derived from this

by squeezing a handful of passengers into the cramped cabins.Most of them were, like myself, travelling on official business.

But there were a few who made the voyage in a private

capacity. Such a one was Mr Noak.

He and I were thrown into immediate intimacy for we were

obliged to share a cabin little bigger than the commodious

kennel that housed Mr Ramptons mastiff at his house in the

country. Noak was a small, spare man who wore his own

sandy hair with only a modicum of powder for gentilitys sakeand tied it with a brown ribbon. He scraped back the hair so

tightly that the bones of his face seemed to poke through the

skin. His figure was youthful but he might have been any age

between twenty and forty. He spoke with a thin, nasal voice,

and always with deliberation, in an accent that I later discov-

ered was characteristic of his native Massachusetts. There was

something of the puritan about him, a sourness of mien.



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Even before we had weighed anchor, I resolved to keep a

proper distance between Mr Noak and myself during the

passage to New York. But I had not reckoned with the pecu-liar swaying motion of the ocean, let alone with the terrifying

effects of rough weather.

Within a few hours of our leaving Falmouth, I descended

into an abyss of spiritual and physical suffering. I was

convinced that I was dying that the ship was sinking; and

my condition was so miserable that, for all I cared, the world

might end in the next instant, which would at least put a

period to my agonies.

It was then that I began to see Samuel Noak in a different

light. For it was he who sponged my brow, who emptied my

basin, who assisted me to the heads. It was he who forced

me to undergo what he assured me was an old naval remedy

for mal de mer: to wit, to swallow a lump of greasy pork

again and again until the stomach no longer had strength to

resist it.

Slowly, over the long days and longer nights, my symptoms

subsided. Mr Noak brought me Souchong tea laced with rumand spooned it into my mouth, which eased my aching gut

and at last encouraged me to fall into the first unbroken sleep

I had enjoyed since leaving England.

Given Noaks kindness, I could hardly hold the man at

arms length, even if I had wished to do so. As I recovered,

we slipped by degrees into a relationship that was something

less than friendship but much more than mere acquaintance.

It is difficult not to be civil to a man who has restored youto life.

Will you remain in New York, sir? I asked him one after-

noon. The weather was calmer now, and we were strolling

on deck after dinner. Or do you travel on?

No, sir I have a position waiting for me in the city. A

clerks desk in a contractors house. A friend of my uncles

procured it for me.



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Im surprised you should wish to leave London. The oppor-

tunities must be far greater there.

True, he said. But in New York I shall be a senior clerk,whereas in London I had no hope of advancement at all.

Besides, I had a desire to see my native land again.

Where were you employed?

At Mr Yellands in the Middle Temple, sir. I had been there

for three years.

I believe I know the gentleman. That is to say, I have come

across him once or twice.

Indeed?

I have a position at the American Department, I explained.

As you know, Mr Yelland acts as the British man of business

for many Loyalists. He sometimes favours us with communi-

cations on their behalf.

That was an understatement, as Noak must surely have

known. Mr Yelland was one of several London attorneys who

had reason to bless this unnecessary war, for it was proving

very lucrative for them. He and his colleagues kept up a steady

flow of letters to the Department. London was packed withdisplaced Loyalists who were convinced that the American

Department owed them compensation for the losses they had

sustained because of their attachment to the Crown.

Will you stay long in New York, sir? Mr Noak asked after

a pause.

A month. Possibly two. Lord George has entrusted me with

a commission and I do not know how long it will take.

Mr Noak nodded, as if making a token obeisance to theaugust name of Lord George Germain, the Secretary of State

for the American Department. The truth of my appointment

was more prosaic: Mr Rampton, one of the two under secre-

taries, had decided that I should go to New York. Lord George

had signed the necessary order, but I was not perfectly

convinced that His Lordship knew who I was.

Perhaps we may encounter one another there, Noak said.



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Perhaps, sir, I agreed, privately resolving that for my part

I would not pursue the acquaintance once we reached America.

Where will you lodge?At Judge Wintours. He is an old friend of Mr Rampton,

the under secretary.

Ah yes, he said. Of course.

Are you acquainted with the Judge?

Only by reputation, sir. Mr Noak paused. They say his

daughter-in-law is a great beauty.

Indeed.

And the heiress to Mount George, as well.

I believe the air is growing chilly. I think I shall go below.

Once seen, Mr Noak said quietly, never forgotten. Thats

what they say. Mrs Arabella Wintour, I mean.

Documents

The Scent of Death by Andrew Taylor