Theft of Life

by Imogen Robertson

  It was impossible to make him understand. ‘I really must leave you now, Mr Clarkson. Perhaps you might ask Cutter here to show you the verses of Miss Phillis Wheatley. She remains a slave and the book contains a number of letters from prominent people supporting her claim to be the genuine author.’

  Clarkson looked delighted. ‘Oh, has a Negress written a poetry book? How wonderful! Yes, that’s just the sort of thing. I am grateful. You know, there are reports of another in America who is terribly good at mathematics!’

  Cutter was already trotting towards them with the volume mentioned, and as quickly as possible. Clarkson all but clapped his hands and Francis took his chance to finally leave the shop. As he left, he saw the clerk of Humphrey’s shop in his doorway. The man raised his hand and smirked. Francis resisted the temptation to cross the road and spit in the man’s face, though how he did so he could not readily say.

  III.5

  ‘TRIMNELL CAME TO ASK your forgiveness?’ Harriet repeated. Tobias Christopher only nodded. ‘And did you give it to him?’

  He took the glass in his hand and drank from it slowly before replying. ‘I did not do so. I could not do so. Perhaps I fail as a Christian to say it, but I cannot forgive or forget what that man did, what hundreds of others such as him have done. How can I offer forgiveness for all that death? I cannot. Some sins only God can forgive, and even then … No. He and all his kind must stand before Heaven to answer. I heard him as far as I could. I let him speak and he left my home as he came to it. He could ask no more than that. I am not a priest to hear his confession and send him into the world clean.’

  ‘You have no desire for revenge?’ Crowther asked.

  ‘Revenge?’ His voice was soft. He stared off into the air above them for a while. Harriet wondered if he was examining the paintings on the library ceiling. There was a theme of exploration among them, ships, high seas, foreign shores – painted to inspire, Harriet supposed, the reading and dreaming of those land-locked within the house. They made her uncomfortable as she tried to see them again through Mr Christopher’s eyes.

  ‘Have you heard of a ship named the Zong, Mr Crowther?’ Christopher said at last. Crowther shook his head, though Harriet noticed Palmer blink and look away. ‘So few Englishmen have. Four years ago, that ship sailed from the coast of Africa with more than six hundred Africans packed into her hold. There was sickness on the ship, there is always sickness on the ship, and before they got near to Jamaica, there were many dead. Now the commander of that ship, Collingwood, was a bad sailor and he missed his way. There he is, out at sea watching his profit vomiting and dying in the hold, and he makes a plan. The cargo is insured. If the slaves he carries die in their own blood and filth below, it is his loss. If, however, of necessity, they are thrown overboard while breathing, the insurers must pay him money for each soul he destroys.’ His voice still had that low and rocking tone to it, like a father telling a story to his child before he sleeps. ‘Necessity. So Mr Collingwood declares there is not enough fresh water left, and orders his crew to throw the living sick into the waters. More than two hundred of the slaves he carried were cast off that ship, and even when the rain had fallen and filled up his water casks again, he sent more to the bottom of the ocean. Still fettered together. Some nights I dream of them sinking in their chains.’ He looked away from the spreading sails painted above him. ‘He was prosecuted by the insurers, Mr Crowther, but for fraud, not murder and Lord Mansfield – a man whose health I drank in 1772 when he freed the slave Somersett – said there was no difference in the case between the killing of slaves, or the killing of sheep. Now what would you say if Collingwood asked you to forgive him? If the sailors who obeyed him asked you? If the insurers? What of the man who toils away making the fetters that bound those slaves together? What of the man who owns shares in the enterprise? How could you forgive, and how would you take revenge for that?’ Crowther said nothing. ‘What I desire, Mr Crowther, is not revenge. I am a more ambitious man than that. I would have truth.’ His voice grew stronger. ‘I would have every person in these islands stand up, declare themselves against slavery and curse the slavers and plantation-owners for the lying, inhuman dogs they are. The insurers, the smith, the shipbuilder, the housekeeper who sweetens her tea with slave sugar, let them stand up beside me and call not for revenge or forgiveness, but for truth. Let them tell the truth.’ He passed a hand over his eyes. ‘They tell the world we are hardly human, fit only for whip and chains so the English will not feel for us. I have been a slave and worn that mask and I am a man. Just as much a man as those who sold me. That is the truth. That is what must be acknowledged.’ He finished his wine then set the glass very carefully back on the table as if conscious it might break into nothing between his fingers. His voice softened again. ‘The English people here, the rich, the educated, the civilised people I meet and train … Sometimes I am at a loss to understand. You are become so dissolute you think robbery, slavery, rape and murder no crimes?’

  ‘That is not so, Mr Christopher. Justice …’ Harriet said faintly.

  He answered her sharply. ‘It is, madam. If the victim is a black and if the crime takes place far enough away, you will shake hands with the man who did it.’

  ‘I would not.’ Then she remembered Sir Charles bowing over her hand, and did not protest any further.

  ‘Justice. Another fine English word.’ Christopher said slowly: ‘I must believe in God, and in believing in God must think He sees and hears what I have seen, what I have heard. I must believe He hopes for the repentance of the people of Britain, that in His infinite mercy He offers a chance for repentance. And if the repentance comes not, I must believe He will deliver His justice, and if it does come, believe me – not one stone will stand on another in this city. That would be justice in proper measure for what has been done. That would be the justice. Not whipping some broken soul in a churchyard. No, there would not be one stone left on another.’

  The silence in the room was that of a church. Outside in the square, a carriage passed, the sound of the horses’ hooves striking the ground clean in the air. It was Christopher’s voice that broke it and he spoke quietly.

  ‘Will you enquire into the matter of Trimnell’s death?’

  It was Crowther who answered. ‘If you wish it, Mr Christopher. But what Mrs Westerman said still holds true. We are not the people to ask questions of the itinerants of the city.’

  Christopher waved his hand in the air. ‘You still will not understand me, Mr Crowther.’

  Mr Palmer spoke from his place by the fire. ‘I cannot believe that Trimnell’s change of heart is unrelated to his death. Think on it, Mr Crowther. We know only too well that the city is full of unrepentant slave-drivers. They go about in safety. One repents and is killed. Surely then the repentance is significant.’

  ‘It must be,’ Harriet said reluctantly. Her mind was full of horrors, the rush of deep water. The ghosts crowded into the room with them, desperate and cold, and she wanted only to drive them out. How else otherwise could it be borne?

  ‘If it was an African who did this, let him be found – and with the support and cooperation of my people,’ Christopher said with a deep sigh. ‘At the very least I will not let the West Indians take this chance to paint we Africans as animals. Though they do, they do. Every black man in London is walking carefully today, wondering what thoughts of savages and sacrifice are dancing behind their white neighbours’ eyes. But I believe you will not find a black fist around that whip. Trimnell was become a strange and broken man. He mismanaged his estate and came home poor. He sought me out in London to try and tell me his sins, as if I did not know them. Something had happened to him. Perhaps his mind broke finally under the knowing of what he had done. He spoke of God. Perhaps he knew he was dying and was racing to make amends before the devil caught him.’ He smiled up at Harriet. ‘This terrible divine justice with which I have only a moment ago threatened you all – maybe he heard it at his back in the shadows.’

 
; She looked down at her hands again. ‘You would make a great preacher if you were not a swordsman, Mr Christopher.’

  ‘We Africans were born poets, ma’am, and we have had time and silence to consider what has been done to us. If Cicero had been Igbo, Rome would never have fallen.’

  Palmer spoke. ‘Trimnell’s conversion into an abolitionist must have been an embarrassment.’

  ‘He told me he had tried to talk to his fellow owners and traders,’ Christopher said. ‘He told me they threw him out of the Jamaica Coffee House and into the dirt. He seemed proud of that.’

  ‘It does not surprise me, that they found him unsympathetic.’ Harriet turned to Palmer. ‘Why did you remove us from the Coroner’s Court?’

  ‘I did not want you to present yourselves in front of that audience as champions of the Africans. All the planters would shut themselves away from you at once,’ Palmer said.

  Harriet examined him more closely. ‘But what of the pantomime you had me perform with you?’

  He put down his glass, his expression not so much uncomfortable as unhappy. ‘I am in a delicate position, Mrs Westerman. The West Indians have many friends in Parliament and the Admiralty.’

  ‘So it is better for you if they believe you tried to warn us away from this killing, even while you encourage us to investigate it?’

  He simply nodded.

  There was a bitter taste under Harriet’s tongue. ‘They will slam their doors on us the moment we ask a question, and you know it, Palmer.’ She straightened her skirts and would look at none of them. ‘If it was another planter who did this, let them continue to murder each other with my blessing.’

  It was Christopher who answered. ‘If it was a white man who did this, because Trimnell repented, then let your countrymen see that. Do it at my request, madam, and with my thanks. As for my friend Mr Palmer, I hope one day he will stand up and tell the truth for the good of his soul. But he will have to find another profession when he does so.’ Christopher looked round them all.

  Harriet bit her lip, before saying, ‘Very well, Mr Christopher. Did Trimnell explain why he felt a need for forgiveness after all these years?’

  ‘He told me he began to read the New Testament during his illness in Jamaica. More than that I cannot say, but he was passionate when he spoke of God.’

  ‘Had he lived in London before?’ Crowther asked and Tobias shook his head.

  ‘Not that I know. He was born in Jamaica and inherited his land and people though he bought many more as we failed and died. All the whites seemed to consider England their home, born there or not. When I lived in that particular Hell he was unmarried, sweating and rotting, and trying to squeeze money out of each inch of land he owned.’

  ‘What of Guadeloupe?’ Harriet said. ‘We must find out how he came to have Trimnell’s watch.’

  Christopher stood and Harriet and Crowther did the same. ‘I believe my work here is done: you are eager for the chase. Leave Guadeloupe to me, Mrs Westerman. I will visit him at Bridewell now, let him know he is not forgotten and see what he can tell me. He will not answer you. You will find me at home tomorrow morning and I would be happy to tell you what I have learned.’

  He handed Harriet a card. The Christopher Academy, it said. Soho Square. His sign was that of crossed swords. ‘Until tomorrow then, Mr Christopher,’ she said.

  He bowed over her hand and his fingers were dry and cool. ‘I look forward to the opportunity of welcoming you to my home.’

  Mr Palmer left with him and Harriet found herself alone with Crowther under those painted medallions of trade and exploration.

  ‘Where shall we begin, Mrs Westerman?’ he asked her.

  She was still watching the door, thinking of Palmer, Christopher and of the many ghosts that surrounded her. ‘The Jamaica Coffee House, I think.’

  III.6

  WHILE THE CARRIAGE WAS being fetched, Harriet went to find Graves. He was in his office, surrounded as always by untidy stacks of paper and looking worried and ill-kempt. His valet did his best to make him look like a suitable guardian to Jonathan and his wealth, but his best work could not last half an hour when Graves was in a distracted mood. He pulled at the sleeves of his coat, yanked at his cravat and ran his inky hands through his hair. It was always touching to see how he disliked being separated from his wife.

  He smiled on seeing Harriet though and invited her in. She sat down beside his desk and folded her hands in her lap.

  ‘I have come to apologise for taking Susan away yesterday, Graves. It was childish of me.’

  He looked at her and sighed. ‘You could at least have brought her back in a better temper.’

  Harriet confessed: ‘I hinted that her school might have some useful things to teach her.’

  ‘And so instead of being her champion, you allied yourself with her oppressors. Well, at least I understand that scene on the stairs now. God knows, she is an intelligent child, too intelligent perhaps, but she will not see …’ He looked exhausted.

  Harriet told him of what had passed at the Coroner’s Court, and the visit of Palmer and Mr Christopher. She waited for his response.

  ‘You must do what you think best, Harriet.’

  ‘You don’t feel I will be a bad influence on the children?’

  ‘No more than you usually are,’ he said. ‘I think they are beyond saving. Susan thrown out of her school – and I caught Eustache stealing. I will blame you as much as I can, naturally, but I do not think you can shoulder all of the fault. Did you know Eustache remembers his mother? What she did?’

  ‘I did not. I am sorry for it.’

  ‘As am I. Jonathan still has nightmares, Susan hates me for trying to make her into a lady. Now Verity is with child, and I am afraid the children will resent the baby, see it as more my child than they are. And I swim daily through the seas of Jonathan’s money and remain poor. Whatever is to become of us all?’

  Harriet thought of her own account books and the pile of correspondence on her desk at Caveley. All abandoned because she was lonely and out of temper with her sister. ‘I do not know.’

  ‘I want them to be happy, but do not know how to make them so.’

  Her eyes suddenly sparkled. ‘I understand a submissive nature and good works are highly recommended.’ He grinned briefly, but then stared at the mound of paper in front of him again. ‘Graves, Susan is angry because you don’t want her to be one of these aristocratic milksops any more than she does, and she recognises the hypocrisy. You gave up your life to look after those children rather than leave them with the great families they are related to, because you knew they would be miserable there. Now, I understand some accommodation must be made with the world, but you have thrown her into the swamp of those overly mannered misses without explanation or guidance. Be honest with her, Graves. And perhaps we should be honest with Eustache too.’

  He looked up from his papers. ‘Should I be honest with you too, Harriet?’

  She said cheerfully, ‘As a rule I would think not – I am not your ward, after all. But tell me what you wish to say this time at least.’

  ‘My best wishes to you and Crowther for your success. The resources of this house are at your disposal as ever, and I shall not complain when the servants are sent out at all hours helping you to pursue your enquiries.’

  ‘But?’

  ‘But for God’s sake, Harriet, try not to bring the danger home this time. Think of the children.’

  She felt her throat tighten, then nodded and left the room.

  When they had arrived at the ruins of Mrs Smith’s home and place of business, Francis came to a halt on the pavement opposite and stared. Miller the constable glanced at him, then crossed the narrow road and spoke to the two men he had set to guard the place. A Mr Churchill who owned the premises next door saw Francis standing there and approached, his shoulders drawn up to his ears, his chin almost on his chest. He stood by Francis’s side and said nothing. The roof had collapsed and the floor that supported the a
ttic rooms where Eliza kept her press for engravings had given way into the first floor, where she had lived. As he stared, Francis could hear again the bursting of the timbers above him and the hungry cackle of the fire. The window to the parlour had shattered and the plasterwork above it was thickly blackened by smoke. Francis thought of the wound to Eliza’s eye and at once felt the tears running down his cheeks. He did not wipe them away. The door to the shop and the ground floor seemed intact; only the windows, usually showing a display of the prints and books and papers Eliza had sold to the ambitious matrons of the city, were smoke-stained and fogged.

  For the most part the crowds passed without even noticing. Occasionally someone would pause, confused, and look up. They were shocked or sorry for a moment, then turned their backs and hurried on.

  Mr Churchill spoke at last. ‘I can lend you my clerk to help you sort through the stock, Mr Glass.’ Francis thanked him without taking his eyes from the ruin. ‘Fire is the greatest terror of any person in our profession,’ Churchill continued. ‘I have spent many a night fretting over it when I should have been sleeping. Why would God allow a woman like Mrs Smith to die? She was the kindest soul in the parish. But then it’s questions like that which send the philosophers to our doors at all hours. I’ll shake your hand, sir.’

  Francis turned towards him and saw his hand outstretched. For a moment in the blankness of his grief he did not know what to do. He put out his own and felt Churchill’s fingers around his own. ‘It was murder, Mr Churchill.’

  The other man inhaled sharply. ‘Then I hope the guilty are found and hanged. For they have taken from us a prize of great worth.’ He released Francis’s hand. ‘I shall send my clerk over at once.’

  Francis was busy among the ashes all morning, fighting with his grief and his anger, and trying to find solace in protecting whatever Eliza had left behind her. The greatest part of the stock downstairs was ruined by smoke and water, though many volumes had escaped more lightly and there were a number of portfolios of prints only slightly damaged at their edges. There was still no sign of the cashbox.