This visitor was at least male, he supposed, which you’d think would be better. The two men, of a similar age and stature, tall and burly, confronted each other in temporary stalemate, like two ageing stags on the moors. They might well be past their best, both of them, but there was fight still left in each; how much fight remained to be seen. There was not to be, one hoped, an undignified brawl upon the threshold of a gentleman’s residence. George didn’t in the least want that; he could have no confidence that this wish was shared.
The man, for Wicken refused to refer to him, even mentally,as a gentleman, was clad in a suit of worn black velvet of outmoded cut. It had been respectable once, but that date was long distant, and it had suffered many indignities since then. Such a suit had no business here, along with its wearer. Not at the front door, nor even the tradesmen’s entrance down the area steps, or at the mews at the back. It was an affront in itself.
Mr Wicken had tried to keep the unwelcome and unsuitable caller out, but had failed in this quite ordinary endeavour, he could not precisely say how. Upon entering the marble atrium of the house in St James’s Square, the man had – correctly, one must admit – removed his ugly old hat, which carried in its band a magpie’s feather, black and white. There was something particularly and unforgivably insolent about this feather, no doubt plucked from the gutter as it was. The fellow – other, more powerful epithets could have been applied, and might be yet – had a red belcher handkerchief tied insolently about his neck, and Wicken suspected, though he had not yet seen, the presence of a barrel organ, and possibly a wretched flea-ridden monkey, outside in the square, no doubt in the charge of some ragged urchin of ill favour, who would be even now attracting the scandalised attention of the neighbours, and possibly the constables.
The person, once he had forced himself into the house by means unclear, had, astonishingly, produced acarte de visite, and requested in tones of odious confidence that Wicken take it in to his master, who would, he claimed, undoubtedly be desirous of receiving him.
The card was of annoyingly good quality, clean, and well printed in expensive ink. It said grandly:
Signor Amadeo Schiavi
Factotum
London
Five words, all but one of which were as Greek to the offended butler. But… Mr Severin was in an unsettled state, and had been for weeks. This in turn upset the whole household, and disrupted its orderly running in unpredictable ways, such as this. Something was going on, and a mere butler could not take the responsibility of interfering. Nobody toldhimanything.
In awful tones, which still imperfectly concealed his anxiety, Wicken abjured the mysterious visitor to remain in the hall. Before he left, he indicated by non-verbal but perfectly distinct means that the hovering, gaping footmen would be sure to keep their eyes on the suspicious foreigner for every second he remained there, in case he should be tempted to begin pocketing any small valuables that lay about.
As if in an uneasy dream, the stately old retainer took the card, on a silver salver that was far finer than it deserved, in to his master, whose life, it was his considered opinion, was rapidly coming apart at the seams, no doubt to the ruin of them all.
Max looked at it in stupefied silence for a moment, and then laughed a little wildly, and said in abstracted tones which only confirmed his servant’s worst fears, ‘Oh, to be sure, Wicken, show Signor Schiavi in directly. And bring some more brandy; I expect we will be needing it before too long.’
Mr Wicken so far forgot himself as to respond with an audible sniff that made his employer grin, and departed on his unwelcome errand. He was not a broken man, not yet, but he was tottering on his foundations.
To hear the uncouth visitor address his master as ‘Ragassol’ before the library door closed behind him was but a further nail in his coffin. George had not the least idea what the nasty word meant, but he knew in his heart it wasn’t respectful or appropriate. Of course it wasn’t. It was only with a heroic effort of will that he restrained himself from enquiring in arctic accents if heshould take suitable refreshment out to the street urchin. And the bloody monkey.
Max and his unexpected guest looked at each other from their armchairs either side of the empty fireplace, this regard a little wary on Max’s part, at least, though Schiavi seemed as unperturbed as ever. The footman William brought the requested extra decanter and set it down, his presence in itself a sign of Wicken’s displeasure, and neither man spoke until the door had closed securely behind him and they were alone.
Mr Severin picked up the card and made a show of looking at it. ‘Factotum,’ he said. ‘Is that what you are?’
‘I told you so,’ the old man said calmly. ‘I do a little of everything, as the Latin word signifies, and help many people. You would be surprised, I daresay.’
‘I doubt it; I lost the facility of surprise a few years ago, long before I met you, and you have done a great deal already to show your versatility, if that’s the word, even in the brief time we have been acquainted.’
‘I have, and I will do more before the day is out. You can thank me then. Just now, I must tell you that I have not seen my granddaughter today, nor had any communication with her, nor with my daughter, nor any other member of their household, since you saw me leave in the early hours. This I swear.’
‘What need for swearing? You talk as carefully as though you were in a court of law,’ Mr Severin said, pouring out a generous measure of brandy and passing it over.
‘God forbid. I mean only to say that you may be secure that Allegra has told me nothing.’
‘How in the name of all that’s holy do you know that there is anything she might tell you, then?’ Max shot back.
Schiavi shook his head, as if sadly disappointed in the intelligence of his companion. ‘Because I am not a fool, nor quite in my dotage yet. You love her, you have said so, and last night when you were alone you told her in great anguish whatever it is that prevents you from making her your wife. Only an imbecile or a Frenchman would doubt any of this.’
‘And so?’
An expansive shrug. ‘No doubt she would not tell me anyway, since she loves you in return and is of a great stubbornness, like all my family,’ the old man rumbled on. ‘And so, since I care for her happiness – though naturally yours is a matter of complete indifference to me, except where she is concerned…’
‘Naturally,’ Max murmured equably.
‘I turn my powerful intelligence, then, to considering what sort of matter it must be. I have lived long in the world, and, like you, have long lost the capacity of being surprised.’
Oh,buthaveyou? Mr Severin thought.I’llwagerIcouldtellyouathingthatwouldmakeyourhairstandonend.ButofcourseIwillnot. ‘And do you,’ Max continued with a credible show of unconcern, though he was aware that a pulse was beating hard in his temple and no doubt the cursedly perceptive old reprobate could see it, ‘do you find you come to any sort of conclusion, sir?’
The great shaggy head was inclined in a fashion almost regal. ‘I do. I conclude, as anyone of my elevated powers would, that the matter concerns your parentage rather than anything you yourself have done. I have observed that most people lack originality where sins are concerned. No; it is not that. It is your father, perhaps, or lack of a father. Your origins.’
‘If that were the case,’ Mr Severin said, taking a larger gulp of brandy than was perhaps wise, ‘and I am not by any meansadmitting if there is or is not any truth in your suggestion, what the Devil do you suppose anyone in the world could do about it?’
