Crowther 02 - Anatomy of Murder

by Imogen Robertson

  “Why, Johannes? You have renown, money of your own. Why do you serve as Manzerotti’s knife man?”

  A look of bliss crossed Johannes’s bloody and bruised face. He looked up at the ceiling as if transfixed by some vision of ecstasy, some untouchable joy.

  “I had to serve him. He is my voice.”

  Crowther did not look around again, though he sensed Jocasta and Sam following him down the stairs. As they paused on the road, from the top of the house they heard the sound of blows, and a muffled sobbing scream.

  They hastened in silence to the outer limits of the rookery, where the carriage of the Earl of Sussex stood waiting for them. Jocasta sniffed, recognizing The Chariot again, and nodded to herself, seeing the right and the pattern of it.

  “We’ll walk from here, Mr. Crowther. My sorrows and blessings to Mrs. Westerman.”

  The footman leaped down from his perch and opened the door. Crowther began to climb into the carriage, then stopped and turned toward her.

  “I shall come and ask you of your childhood memories, Mrs. Bligh, when this is done and the grieving passed. I thank you for offering them to me.”

  “They’ll do you as much hurt as good. But such is the way of the world.” She let her hand rest on Sam’s shoulder and Crowther took his seat. The footman closed the door on him and fitted the latch. “You know where to find me, Mr. Crowther. Me and Sam.”

  He tipped his hat to her and struck his cane on the roof. The coachman stirred his horses into movement and the carriage rattled off into the deserted streets.

  “What’s that, Mrs. Bligh?” Sam asked.

  “Old wounds that still bleed, lad. But that is for another time. Let us to our own sleepings now.”

  Lord Sandwich and Mr. Palmer put the matter very clearly to their reluctant host. Once Carmichael had understood, he was frank with them and explained every part of the business quite thoroughly. He had indeed communicated with the French from time to time and been rewarded for it. At first it was simply for the pleasure of seeing great and influential men listen to him with care and praise, then the habits of subterfuge had become part of him, and he thirsted for the risk of it. He had met Manzerotti in the distant past, but knew of him only as a talented singer until Fitzraven had arrived and presented himself with the letter from Paris and instructions to take Manzerotti into his home and confidence. Fitzraven had been all but drooling when he told Carmichael that Manzerotti had suggested the construction of some hiding places in his home. He had resented the intrusion, but realizing he had little choice, acquiesced.

  From the moment Manzerotti arrived, Carmichael was forced to admit he was a master spy and recognize that he himself had only been a dilettante till now. Manzerotti had seen something in the hard features of the woman who ran the coffee room in His Majesty’s and found out her son was an Admiralty clerk. He had then made Johannes his go-between, and soon Carmichael’s hiding places were overflowing with material for France. His public snubbing of Fitzraven went hand in hand with private confidence. He had encouraged the man to try and whore his own daughter for information, and sympathized with his annoyance over their estrangement and her partiality for Bywater. When he found Fitzraven dead he had emptied the room of anything he thought incriminating and summoned Johannes.

  Manzerotti’s reasons for ordering the murders of Bywater and then Marin were much as Crowther and Harriet had speculated. He saw the chance to put an end to their investigations before Bywater confessed and the question of how the body ended up in the river grew pressing, then when he heard of Miss Marin’s note he saw the chance to neaten matters still further. Carmichael told them that he only heard of Harriet’s connection to the Marquis de La Fayette at his party, from Sandwich’s own mouth. He was aware of who had been on the ship, but not the name of the captain who had taken the prize, and when he heard Harriet speak shortly afterward of her husband’s returning memory and his talk of spies, he had decided to take action.

  Carmichael’s words were written out for him by a trembling clerk, and his signature was made and witnessed while Palmer wondered if it was possible to conceal this last from Harriet. The clerk then left the room and a few moments later so did Sandwich and Mr. Palmer. The latter turned the key in the lock and they made their way down the stairs in silence, pausing only briefly when the report of a pistol shot rang out from behind the closed door.

  “I know you would wish a trial, Palmer. You are young enough to look for justice. But it is better so,” Sandwich said.

  “My lord,” was all Palmer had by way of answer.

  Crowther spoke briefly to Graves in the hallway when he returned to Trevelyan’s house, and to Rachel and Clode in the parlor where they rocked baby Anne in the firelight, before letting himself quietly into the room where Harriet sat vigil by the body of her husband. She looked up as he entered. She held her sleeping son on her lap. Her face was calm, tearstained, still. He came into the center of the room and placed his cane on the ground before him, resting his weight on it with sudden realization of his own exhaustion.

  “It is done, Harriet.”

  “He is dead?”

  “Yes. They beat him to death, and the surgeons will have use of his body. Manzerotti, I am grieved to tell you, escaped.”

  She stroked the head of her sleeping child and kissed his white brow. “I know. Graves has told me.” Crowther watched her for a second longer, then with a sigh turned back toward the door. His fingers were on the handle, still wrapped in black leather, when he heard her speak again.

  “Thank you, Gabriel.”

  He turned and bowed deeply to her, then left the room.

  EPILOGUE

  14 DECEMBER 1781

  Jocasta had seen hangings enough in her twenty years in London, so felt no need to go and watch Mrs. Mitchell swing for her daughter-in-law’s death. It was on that day though that she went to St. Anne’s burying ground with the brooch Molloy had found, leading Sam by the hand. He was looking better for some weeks’ feeding, and a lot cleaner than when they had first met. At the grave, he stood back a way with Boyo in his arms. The ground was hard and Jocasta had a job to scrape into the dirt more than a few inches. Still, the brooch was small and there was space enough for it before many minutes had passed. She laid it down very carefully, brushed the dirt back over it, then stood up, her knees complaining.

  Sam stepped up next to her. “I thought you’d be saying something to her, Mrs. Bligh.”

  Jocasta ruffled his hair.

  Mr. Palmer came to meet Mrs. Westerman in Adams’s Music Shop as arranged. She smiled when she saw him and beckoned him into the private parlor away from the business of music, into the quiet, and took a seat at the worn table there. Mourning became her, and the fierce grief of the first days after her husband’s murder seemed to have mellowed into a relative calm.

  “You return to Sussex tomorrow, Mrs. Westerman?” Mr. Palmer said when the door to the main body of the shop was closed.

  “I do. Now the trials are done with, there is nothing to hold me here and I find I miss the country air.”

  “I am very sorry.”

  “Lord Sandwich had the decency to come and tell me himself why Manzerotti was allowed to leave the country.”

  “Yes, it appears he transmitted vital information to us in seventy-five. It would have been too great an embarrassment for the government to have him come to trial.” Mr. Palmer shifted in his seat.

  “He wrote to me, you know,” she said.

  “Good God! The man is a devil.”

  “Yes, I rather think he is. He sent me his condolences and said he understood my grief, having lost a dear companion himself, and was sorry circumstances prevented him from offering his sympathies in person.”

  “By ‘dear companion’ I assume he means Johannes.”

  “Indeed. Clode and Graves had to be physically restrained from making for the coast at once with their knives between their teeth. All the women in the household had to cry their eyes out at them b
efore they would relent.”

  “That does not surprise me, Mrs. Westerman.”

  Harriet sighed and looked out of the window at the back of the parlor. Mr. Crumley could just be made out in the workshop beyond, bent over his punches hammering music onto metal sheets as if it could be trapped there, pinned down, made absolute.

  “Mr. Crowther returned to the country yesterday,” she said. “I believe he did so to answer all the curiosity of my household and neighbors before I face them myself. For such an impossible man he can be sensitive at times.” She turned to look at him. “Did you attend the executions of those three men, Mr. Palmer?”

  “I did. They did not die well. The crowd will cheer a thief, but show them a traitor and their mood is darker.” He paused. “Yet I feel some guilt at their deaths and their manner of dying. Manzerotti we all but escorted from the country, it appears, and we allowed Carmichael to shoot himself in the comfort of his own home.”

  “They were not important enough to deserve such niceties.”

  “I fear that is so.”

  She waited a moment, then said, “The young gentleman is outside?”

  “Yes, Mrs. Westerman. He waits in the street. Though you do not need to see him.”

  “I wish it.”

  Palmer stood and returned a few moments later with a young boy dressed in the uniform of a Midshipman. Harriet smiled at him. He was as pale as Stephen was dark, and looked far too slight a being to be cast about on the open oceans. “You are Mr. Meredith?” she asked.

  The boy nodded. “Mrs. Westerman, I felt I couldn’t go back to the ship without seeing you, if you were willing.”

  “Say what you need to say, Mr. Meredith,” said Palmer. “This interview is not easy for Mrs. Westerman.”

  The boy dropped to one knee in front of her, as if before a queen, and lowered his head. “Ma’am, it was the day after the engagement with Le Marquis de La Fayette, and the rigging was half shot away. So we were making the repairs, and I was up top of the mizzenmast helping to sort out which blocks were sound still.”

  Harriet felt her heart contracting in her chest.

  The boy continued. “I had one in my hand and was just saying to Picard I thought it cracked, and leaned over to show him the spot . . . and it slipped from my hand.” He began to cry; the words came out wet and broken. “It just slipped . . . The rope it was hung on had been torn up worse than I’d realized, and it ripped through like a cotton. I couldn’t even understand it, and Picard shouted, ‘Look out below!’ and the captain was there on the quarterdeck and he looked up as the shout came and we saw it strike him.” His voice shuddered. Harriet reached forward and put her hand on his bent head. “And he went down, ma’am. So heavy and quick, and by the time I got onto the deck they were lifting him and carrying him away and they shoved me back. Oh God, I am so sorry, ma’am! I am so sorry. He was the best captain in the service and he had been so kind to me and helped me and the other young gentlemen. I’d have died rather than do him harm.” He hung his head low. “It just slipped.”

  Harriet put her arms around the boy’s shaking shoulders and drew him toward her. Her own tears were falling now, and they dropped from her face onto the boy’s yellow hair. She held his head against her knees and bent over him, then spoke into his ear with her throat tight and raw.

  “He mentioned you, Meredith.” The boy squirmed. “Listen to me now, my boy. He mentioned you in a letter to me. He said he was proud with the progress you had made under his command.” She leaned back, lifted his face and looked into his eyes. “He said he thought you’d make a fine captain yourself one day.” Meredith bit his lip and met her gaze. Harriet sighed. “That is what you must do now, Meredith, for my husband and for me. Be the best officer you can be. Care for your men and your ship and be faithful to them, and I will be proud of you, and I’ll know James would be proud of you too.”

  The boy got unsteadily to his feet. “Thank you, madam.”

  She took a great breath and wiped her eyes. Then stood and, opening the door, stepped forward into the shop, leading Mr. Meredith with her.

  “Stephen! Come here!”

  Her son looked up from where he was throwing jacks in the corner with Lord Thornleigh and came obediently to her side. “Stephen, I want you to meet Mr. Meredith. He was one of your father’s young gentlemen on the Splendor.”

  Stephen put out his hand and shook Mr. Meredith’s with great vigor. “French spies killed my father.”

  “I know, Stephen. I was very sorry to hear it,” Meredith replied.

  Stephen looked up at him, narrowed his eyes and said cautiously, “When I am older I shall be a sailor too, like you. May I come and sail on your ship?”

  Meredith glanced up at Harriet and saw her nod her head.

  “You may, and I shall take very good care of you, young Westerman. I promise you.”

  Mr. Palmer appeared from the doorway, exchanged bows with the company then left, guiding Meredith before him.

  Mrs. Westerman retreated into the parlor and did not emerge for some time.

  Morgan neatened a stack of songbooks on the counter. “I shall miss her when she goes, that Mrs. Westerman. As fine a lady as ever I’ve met.”

  Graves looked up from his figures. “What, ready to desert me already, Morgan? Do you wish to go and buy a place in the country and live like a lady?”

  “Humph. Not likely. I’ll be your manager here, and then I can visit Issy’s grave whenever I take a notion to do so. And Mr. Leacroft too from time to time, when Lady Susan wants company.”

  “Thank you.”

  “I should think so too. You’ll waste away all Miss Chase’s wedding portion, the deals you and Crumley have been making on paper. Then all your children will go hungry.”

  Stephen laughed, and they looked up to see Lady Susan making faces for him, and her brother giggling. Graves swallowed and Morgan put her hand on his sleeve.

  “It goes on, Mr. Graves; whether we will it or no, life tumbles forward.”

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  HISTORICAL NOTE

  Cornwallis had already surrendered at Yorktown on 19 October 1781 before the main narrative of Anatomy of Murder opens, but the news did not reach London until 25 November. It marked the end of the campaign on land during the American War of Independence, though the combat at sea continued. The Treaty of Paris was signed on 3 September 1783 and the last British troops left New York that same November.

  John Montagu, Fourth Earl of Sandwich (1718–92), was First Lord of the Admiralty three times, lastly as part of Lord North’s government between 1771 and 1783. His wife’s deteriorating mental health led to the couple separating. She was declared De Lunatico Inquirendo in May 1767. Sandwich’s much-loved mistress, opera singer Martha Ray, was shot in the foyer of the Royal Opera House, Covent Garden in 1779 by a rival for her affections. Lord Sandwich was a great and influential lover of music. The quality of his stewardship of the Admiralty, however, is still under debate.

  For an account of insanity and its treatment in the period, I recommend Madmen: A Social History of Madhouses, Mad Doctors and Lunatics by Roy Porter.

  Mozart visited London as part of his tour of Europe with his sister and father in 1764 and 1765, and received lessons from J. C. Bach. His Piano Sonata No. 8 in A minor K310, which is the piece Susan and Leacroft play together, was composed in Paris in 1778 while he was campaigning for employment and patronage.

  The fictional opera house His Majesty’s Theatre is based on the King’s Theatre London of this period. For details of how an opera house was managed, from the music to the performers to the refreshments, I owe a great debt to Italian Opera in Late Eighteenth-Century London, Volume 1, The King’s Theatre Haymarket, 1778–1791 by Curtis Price, Judith Milhous and Robert D. Hume.

  The castrato who took the primo umo roles in the 1781–82 season at the King’s Theatre was the mezzo-soprano Gaspare Pacchierotti (1740–1821). He was renowned as a great singer and also loved
for his modesty and excellent manners.

  For an account of the lives and training of the castrati, I would recommend Patrick Barbier, translated by Margaret Crosland: The World of the Castrati: The History of an Extraordinary Operatic Phenomenon.

  The 1781–82 season was marked by a plagiarism scandal involving the castrato and composer Venanzio Rauzzini (1747–1810) and one of the house composers, Antonio Sacchini (1730–86). This was a case of disputed authorship between former collaborators, however, not comparable to the outright theft of Leacroft’s music by Bywater.

  The arias mentioned, and the opera Julius Rex are, to the best of my knowledge, fictions of the author.

  On 20 June 1781 the Public Advertiser reported that the Endymion had captured a French ship called the Marquis de La Fayette on the banks of Newfoundland “loaded for congress with arms, clothing and bale goods bound to Philidelphia,” and valued her at “not less than 300,000 1.” The Endymion was under the command of Captain Philip Carteret. In a letter to Carteret’s wife in Southampton dated 19 June 1781 from his friend Noah Lebras, the date of the engagement is given as 3 May. The Endymion lost five men, and four wounded.

  All further details are invented.

  London Life in the Eighteenth Century by M. Dorothy George gives an excellent account of the capital at the time.

  For a layman’s guide to the effects of brain injury on both patients and their families, please see Head Injury: A Practical Guide by Trevor Powell, published by Headway, the brain injury association.

  ALSO BY IMOGEN ROBERTSON

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