‘My fault, madam,’ said Tom quickly. ‘I was, er, looking at the inn sign.’
‘I thought perhaps you wanted to sniff at my nosegay,’ said the woman. She sounded amused.
‘Nosegay?’
‘Yes. To sniff at it.’
She raised a gloved hand towards a bunch of flowers attached to her coat collar. Tom couldn’t make out what they were, violets perhaps with a sprig of green. The woman wasn’t English, had a slight accent (almost saying ‘per’aps’, ‘sneef’), although he was unable to place it. Her voice was attractively low. Now, if such a remark about ‘sniffing nosegays’ had come from a woman in parts of central London — round Haymarket, say, or in Leicester Square in the early evening — Tom Ansell wouldn’t have had any doubts about the nature of such a meeting. Nor would the woman’s colliding with him have been an accident. But he was in a strange town on a foggy night and did not know his way round. The woman continued to assess him by the faint light from The Side of Beef. She glanced at the case he was holding and then at the inn sign. She might have been in a hurry before but seemed reluctant to move now.
‘No,’ he said. ‘No nosegays tonight. It’s too foggy.’
The woman’s mouth, wide and mobile, flickered with renewed humour. ‘Ah, no nosegays tonight because it is too foggy,’ she said, mimicking him. She dipped her head slightly and moved off down the road. Tom wanted to watch her retreating back but he was afraid she might turn round to look at him and did not want to show that much interest. Was she a judy or what his friends might have half-mockingly called a fille de joie? Was that her profession? He couldn’t tell. After the incident at the railway station, this encounter left him not so much unsettled as feeling a bit foolish. Why had he made such a nonsensical comment about the foggy night?
Shrugging, he climbed the steps to the porticoed entrance to the inn and pushed at the door. A small man hovering in the lobby whom he at first took for a servant turned out to be Mr Jenkins, the proprietor. Jenkins had slicked-back grey hair and a full moustache which was, incongruously, jet black. The landlord was expecting Tom, who had written on the previous day to reserve a room.
‘Ah, the gentleman from Messrs Scott, Lye amp; Mackenzie in London,’ said Jenkins, rolling the names round his tongue. ‘You had a pleasant journey from London, sir? I expect you’ll want to warm up. There’s a good fire in your room. And there’s hot water upstairs too. A bathroom with a geyser, no less. Nasty night out, isn’t it. Goes to one’s chest, this weather, I find. Let me show you to your quarters. Can I take your case? No, rather carry it yourself, would you? Quite understand. On business here? But then you must be on business, coming from Messrs Scott, Lye amp; Mackenzie in London.’
Tom regretted having made the reservation on the firm’s notepaper and wondered whether the landlord was about to ask him exactly what his business was in Salisbury. But, without pausing for a reply, Jenkins continued his monologue as they ascended stairs which twisted and tilted in every direction. He prattled on about the antiquity of his hostelry and the snugness of its parlour and the quality of the food and the attentiveness of the servants until they reached a landing on the first floor. A plain young woman, a servant, stood to one side to let them pass. She sneezed and the landlord said, ‘Bless you, Jenny,’ sounding as though he meant the opposite. Then he led Tom along a passageway to a door which he opened with a flourish. ‘There, sir!’ he said, with as much pride as if he’d finished decorating the room himself that very morning.
Once he’d got rid of the landlord with the assurance that, yes, everything was fine and that, yes, he’d be down to supper as soon as he’d settled himself and unpacked, Tom surveyed the room. The walls were covered with linen-fold panelling and the uncarpeted floor sloped towards an oriel window below which ran a seat so that one could watch what was happening in the street in comfort. There was a large old-fashioned bed, a four-poster with hangings, and furniture so dark and cumbersome that it might have dated from the Middle Ages. A fire was burning in an elaborate grate. It was the kind of room which should have been illuminated with candles or flaming torches but, in a concession to modernity, there was a gasolier hanging from the centre of the carved ceiling.
It would do, thought Tom, for a couple of days. In fact it was more spacious than his lodgings in Islington and, since he was here on his firm’s business, he would not have to pay for his stay. He put down his case and took off his coat. He walked across to the window recess. The curtains had been drawn to keep the warmth in. Tom parted them and could almost feel the damp fog nuzzling at the diamond-shaped panes. The covered porch of The Side of Beef was to his left and the pavement where he had encountered the woman was directly below him. There was a single figure standing there now, a woman. She was gazing up at this very window. Tom drew back sharply. Despite the fog, he was almost sure that it was the same woman, unless there happened to be two females in Salisbury who were wearing large hats decorated with a band, and trolling in the same area of town.
He tugged the curtains together with more force than necessary. He wondered if she’d recognized him as he, almost certainly, had recognized her. He thought that, with the gas light behind him, he probably appeared as no more than a shadow. He could be any newly arrived traveller at the inn. Then Tom grew irritated with himself. What did it matter if she had seen him? Why shouldn’t he be looking out of the window in his room? And if she was what he supposed her to be, then there was nothing more natural than that she would be hanging around in the neighbourhood of the town centre looking for customers. Though, he knew, such activities in provincial towns tended to be confined to run-down areas and the lodging houses called padding-kens where less reputable travellers and even tramps would put up for the night.
Putting all such considerations to the back of his mind, Tom unpacked his case, visited the bathroom at the end of the passageway and descended the twisting, uneven stairs to the supper room on the ground floor.
The rest of the evening passed uneventfully. To Tom’s slight surprise, the supper was good and the service as attentive as Jenkins the landlord had promised. He chose the lamb cutlets rather than the broiled fowl and was served by a motherly woman who fussed about him. There were a pair of clerics in close conference at a table in a corner, and a couple more men who were sitting, like Tom, with only themselves for company and reading newspapers while they ate. There was a larger group of men and women at the biggest table who, to judge by the laughter and raised voices, had already fed and drunk thoroughly. They had the plush, self-important look of burghers and burghers’ wives, of the town notables.
The landlord appeared at the door of the room and seemed to be heading in Tom’s direction but he was waylaid by the large group who insisted that he help finish one of the several bottles which they’d ordered during their meal. Jenkins looked gratified. He tugged his moustache and smoothed his hair and took a spare chair from another table. At some point, Tom saw one of the diners in the large group looking at him with interest. He had arrived late, and had turned his head sharply as he passed Tom, who was sitting close to the door. Now Jenkins was whispering to this individual, a stout man who was leaning back in his chair and tapping the side of his nose.
From their glances in his direction, Tom knew they were talking about him. The landlord had probably identified him as a notary from London, and no doubt made something of Messrs Scott, Lye amp; Mackenzie too. It was aggravating but there was nothing he could do about it except look displeased and turn his attention back to Baxter’s On Tort, which he’d brought down to occupy him during supper. The book was as unappetizing as it had been on the train. What had Canon Selby said? ‘No sane man would read Baxter for pleasure.’ Tom hoped that he’d meet Canon Selby again. He wished he’d brought a news-paper, like the other gentlemen dining by themselves. Or a novel. Though he wouldn’t have been quite comfortable to be seen reading a novel. Unless it was one written by Helen, of course. If she ever finished writing her sensation novel. And if she did finish writing it, then he suppposed that he’d have to read it.