The Masters of Bow Street Read Online Free PDF Page A

heart.’
    She did not ask ‘Are you tired, John?’ She stood with a glass of dry sack in her hand as he picked up his; she sipped, he, drank deeply, legs still stretched out, body limp in the great armchair, shadows beneath his eyes.
    ‘Must you see William?’ she inquired.
    ‘Yes,’ he answered. ‘Much though I’d rather stay with you.’
    ‘I wonder which of us would exhaust you more,’ she remarked, and her eyes danced.
    ‘The most exhausting thing in the world is boredom, madam, and I shall never be bored with you.’ Her eyes kindled now and she sipped again. ‘Can you come back?’
    ‘No,’ she said.
    ‘’Tis a heavy loss, Lisa.’
    ‘It’s no loss at all,’ she declared. ‘I cannot go and come back but I can rest until you are back from the bosom of your family.’
    He stared at her for what seemed a long time. Then he tossed down what was left of his brandy and sprang up, so swiftly and suddenly that he startled her. Before she could move away he put his arms around her and kissed her, holding the kiss until her breasts began to heave. At last he let her go.
    ‘He may be in one of his stubborn moods and stay a long time,’ he warned her.
    ‘I’ll outstay him, never fear.’
    ‘There is no man or woman in London I would worry about less,’ his voice boomed. He kissed her again but this time lightly and went to a cupboard, opened it and hooked slippers out with his toes. ‘I can manage,’ he said as she came to help, and he used his forefinger as a shoehorn; but he was breathing heavily as he straightened up. She looked concerned, but she did not question him, however, as he nodded and walked to wards the door, then she heard him walking up the stairs slowly and, for him, heavily.
    She waited until she heard a door close, heard voices, the closing of another door, followed by silence above. Then she pulled at a bell cord which hung by the fireplace, and soon Silas Moffat came in, a small man compared with his master, and fragile.
    ‘I’ll be here for a while,’ she said. ‘I shall dine with Mr. John.’
    ‘I’m very glad to hear that, ma’am.’
    ‘I wonder,’ she said, but did not push the doubt although she looked at the man’s face with great intensity. Moffat was neither embarrassed nor perturbed; nor, it was obvious, was he at all surprised by the question she then asked.
    ‘How often is he short of breath, Moffat?’
    Moffat said quietly, ‘Too often, ma’am.’
    ‘Don’t prevaricate, man. How often?’
    ‘It is a long time since I first noticed it. Once a week at least,’ reported Moffat, ‘and sometimes two or three times a day.’
    ‘Do you know what causes this shortness of breath?’
    ‘That I do not.’
    ‘No man in the world resents an interfering woman more than your master,’ stated Lisa Braidley, ‘and no man could be worse served than by a servant who allows him to ignore the state of his health. Find out the cause, Silas. If needs be, make him see a doctor. Bring one here on some pretext. Do you understand me?’
    Silas Moffat looked at her, his lips curving gently in a smile, but anxiety in his eyes, as he rejoined, ‘No man in London scents a pretext more quickly than he, ma’am. But I will find a way.’
    She touched his hand, nodded, and turned from him. He left the room and walked to the foot of the stairs. In the courtroom a man was shouting; outside, a carriage was approaching at a furious pace, and Moffat paused, head held high in expectation lest it should stop. But it passed, and with obvious relief he went up the stairs. From the landing he could hear the high-pitched voice of William Furnival, but he did not hover by the door to find out what one of his master’s younger brothers had to say.
     
    William Furnival was not much shorter than John, but a lean man who had the hard, weather-beaten appearance of one who spent much of his time out of doors, in energetic pursuits. Whereas his brother looked less than his fifty-three years, he