The Silversmith's Wife _ Sophia Tobin Read Online Free PDF

chiding Benjamin for his uselessness, and weeping flamboyantly. All of these things he did loudly enough for her to hear from the parlour.
    As he gave directions for the others to rearrange the shop, Mary left quickly and quietly, unnoticed in the midst of diversion, like the most enterprising of prisoners. She ran down the stairs and out into the light, without even putting on her hat or cloak, still wearing the clothes of the night before. As she passed the window she saw Grisa waving his arms as he berated the apprentice. For all of his fastidiousness, she noticed that his wig was slightly askew.
    She had acclimatized to the light before she reached the end of Bond Street. She turned left along Piccadilly and walked without looking up until she came to Castle Street, where her sister lived. It had been months since she had last come to this door. There she knocked, persistently, until Mallory yanked the door open, cursing under her breath.
    The sight of Mary seemed to drain all of Mallory’s aggression away. She put her hand to her sister’s forehead. ‘Are you sick?’ she said.
    Mary shook her head. ‘It’s Pierre,’ she said. ‘Someone killed him. They wouldn’t bring you to me last night.’
    Her sister stared at her. Her brown eyes, so dark they seemed almost black even in the morning light, showed nothing. ‘You look like hell,’ she said, and taking Mary’s wrist, she pulled her into the house. Weakness wasn’t for the London streets, not at any time of day. ‘It’s a wonder you arrived here unmolested, looking like that.’
    Mary followed Mallory in and sank into a kitchen chair as her sister bellowed at her children and coerced them into going upstairs. The house, though tall enough to be impressive from without, was only two rooms deep, and much of its life revolved around the kitchen, its gloom only assuaged by the flickering of the fire. Mallory’s second husband had been dead a year and she often complained that her children’s noise swelled up and filled the space he had left behind. ‘Will you never give me any peace?’ she shouted after the retreating backs as they raced each other upstairs. Mary thought kindly of poor, complaining Francis Dunning; her brother-in-law had known her since childhood. Had he been here, he would have embraced her.
    Mallory did not; she moved around quickly, here and there, tidying things, as though at any moment she might start butting at the confines of the house. There had been no love lost between Mallory and Pierre. Even now Mary could sense that it was not grief agitating her sister, but rather the tension of words left unsaid. Mallory was so direct that she could sooner ignore the thrust of a knife than her own thoughts, always pushing to be spoken.
    Finally she sat down by the fire, opposite Mary.
    ‘How?’ she asked.
    ‘His throat was cut last night in Berkeley Square,’ said Mary.
    Mallory left a barely decent silence. ‘He ruffled too many feathers,’ she said. ‘He was bound to push someone too far, one day.’
    ‘You think someone killed him purposely?’ said Mary.
    ‘Drawing a knife across someone’s throat is hardly accidental,’ said Mallory. ‘Though for the number of enemies he had, it will not be worth you engaging the Runners to investigate. Unless there is someone they are thinking of for the crime?’
    Mary shook her head. ‘I thought footpads,’ she said. ‘I don’t know what I thought.’ It crossed her mind that she had not even considered a motive, in the same way that she did not question why the rain fell or the sun rose.
    ‘Look at the state of you.’ Mallory got up, took out her comb from her pocket, and began to untangle her sister’s hair, carefully but firmly, ignoring Mary’s intake of breath when she tackled a knot.
    ‘Dr Taylor will call a coroner’s meeting. I should go,’ said Mary.
    ‘No reason for you to be there, even if they let you.’
    ‘I feel I should. Perhaps it would be real for me, if I