Theft of Life

by Imogen Robertson

  Eustache hesitated, then nodded and headed for the back office. William watched him go, and having exchanged final civilities with Cutter, headed back out into the street.

  VI.2

  HARRIET ASKED TO SEE William as soon as he returned to the house. She had written out the results of her calculations from the previous evening on a sheet of paper and kept nervously picking it up and putting it down. She had snapped at Dido that morning and been able to take nothing but coffee at breakfast. William seemed to take a very long time getting back from the city.

  He came in at last and she stood at once and put the note in his hand. He unfolded it and looked at the numbers, then back at her again. ‘I do not understand, Mrs Westerman.’

  She found it easier to pace while she spoke. ‘As an ordinary seaman, you were due a certain share in each prize. I have been checking exactly what prizes were taken while you were … before you were free. I am afraid my husband was not entirely scrupulous even in putting aside the quarter of what you were actually due while taking the rest.’

  ‘Mrs Westerman …’

  ‘Please let me finish, William. I worked out what you were due from each prize, actually due. Then there was the matter of your wages for those years. It all came to a rather neat sum, but then I calculated the compound interest, given, you should have had it in ’seventy-nine at the latest, and that,’ she pointed to the note, ‘is what you are owed.’ He had raised his eyebrows when she mentioned compound interest and she saw it. ‘Stephen helped me.’

  ‘Mrs Westerman …’

  ‘Please do not try and persuade me you should not have it, nor that it is not necessary. It is entirely necessary to me, and to Stephen. You shall have it, William.’

  He looked down at the note. It was a large sum indeed. He hesitated. ‘Very well. May I keep this?’

  She nodded, a little unsure, and watched him fold it up with his certificate of manumission. ‘William, the money is yours to do with as you will, of course. But I wondered what you might think of building a house just on the edge of Hartswood? It would be convenient if you were willing to take on the role of steward of the estate. I was thinking a salary of perhaps forty pounds per annum? And I would buy you a horse.’

  He smiled suddenly, fully, and Harriet felt some of the tension leave her. ‘Yes, that would indeed be acceptable, Mrs Westerman. I shall put off my livery when we leave town and buy a coat with buttons large enough to terrify your tenants.’

  ‘Oh, thank goodness for that,’ Harriet said, putting her hand on her chest and William laughed.

  Eustache and Joshua worked steadily in the back room gathering the papers into piles and then beginning to sort them. It was not as difficult as they had feared. Only a very few of the pages were damaged at all, beyond a few creases, and most had fallen in clumps as if they had struggled to huddle together when attacked. Eustache even began to find his own reports on the various manuscripts he had read for Mr Glass in the last few days. It was not until late in the afternoon that he began to suspect that the most recent one, the important one, was missing.

  A message from Molloy arrived in Berkeley Square at midday. It gave a place and a time. The household breathed a deep sigh of relief. Mrs Westerman would still be pacing, but now the message was come, at least she would be pacing the Square rather than the confines of the house itself.

  VI.3

  FRANCIS HAD NEVER BEEN fond of dogs and was ready by mid-afternoon to throttle both brown and white spaniels and throw their useless carcases in the New River. They had found nothing but rabbits in the woods and so, believing his quest failed and that all now rested on Miller’s ability to intimidate the cabman, Francis turned back down Hornsey Lane and then down Devil’s Lane footsore and frustrated.

  It had been meant as a kindness, getting him out of the city, but with nothing but the fields to look at, and nothing to occupy his mind but memories of Eliza, he did not feel improved for it. The sun was settling lower in the sky. The horizon was normally hidden from him by the buildings of London, but now there was a sky so much greater than what he was used to. The hedgerows were thick with the stars of Queen Anne’s Lace, and the hawthorn bushes heavy with blossom – and the quiet cut through him. He wished that Eliza were there. It was a wish deeper than words. He closed his eyes and rested for a moment against the fence-post, tried to fight his grief, then surrendered to it. Great sobs shook his whole body and he turned away from the sunset as if he was ashamed. He had no idea how long he spent there. The world – his life – had ceased to be a thing that could be measured in time; there was nothing but an awareness of hope stolen away. When finally he returned to himself he stood up slowly and tasted dusk in the air. The sky had become a riot of reds and pinks, long clouds of dusty purple and a solid gold blaze of the sinking sun.

  He looked around him, but the dogs were out of sight, barking at something where the road bent down into a narrow valley. He pulled out his handkerchief and wiped his face then set off in pursuit of the noise, his mind still blank and his limbs carrying him without his will taking any part in it. The dogs were some hundred yards down the track, snuffling and yapping self-importantly not at a verge or ditch, but rather at the gateway set back from the road and half-hidden by the shadows of the ash trees planted alongside it.

  He put the dogs back on their leashes and tried to pull them away, but the dogs were stubborn and insistent. He saw something in the long grass under the wall and bent down to look. A cashbox. He bent down and picked it up, and it carried him like a charm back into Eliza’s shop. He could see her closing the lid and tucking it under the counter. She smiled at him. He opened his eyes and looked about him. Could Penny have been buried here, on this verge? But there was no sign of disturbed earth, and there was no doubt the dogs wished to go through the gates. He set the cashbox down tenderly in the grass again and pushed at them. They swung back without a sound and he went through them, the dogs pulling hard at him. At the end of a short driveway, and completely screened from the road by the trees, he saw a very elegant villa. There were lights showing on the ground floor. The sight seemed almost a mirage, especially coming upon it like this when daylight was changing subtly into the bronzed shades of evening. It was a beautiful house, unusual to be built so far away from fashion and on such a lonely and inconvenient road, but the square garden was full of new spring blooms surrounding green lawns.

  The dogs tugged him up the path and began scrabbling at the door. Francis was shaken by the excited certainty of the animals. If they had led him to an outhouse perhaps, or to some side garden, he might have believed them, but it seemed incredible that Penny might have been carried or dragged through this front door. The dogs looked up at him, large-eyed and whining. He knocked. After a minute or so the door was opened by a maid. She was older than most of the girls Francis saw opening doors and scrubbing steps. The dogs strained forward. Now that the door was open Francis could hear music playing and a male voice singing – a light tenor and clear, rounded. The woman looked him up and down.

  ‘Go away,’ she said at last and began to shut the door again.

  Francis put his hand out to stop it closing and his weight behind it. ‘One moment, madam,’ he said. The music stopped and a man’s voice called out: ‘Who is it, Mrs Rogers?’

  ‘No one,’ the woman said, and tried to push the door to. Francis pushed harder till it sprang back and the woman was forced into the hallway.

  He stepped over the threshold and saw: a wide-open vestibule, a shining marble floor with the occasional white and pink Turkish carpet; ironwork on the staircase – and such a feel of light and air about the place it seemed to have been made from thistledown. The maid looked at him and he saw himself through her eyes: African, grubby and red-eyed, his cravat none too clean and a fresh whip-strike on his cheek.

  ‘Forgive me, I mean you no harm. My name is Francis Glass. I have come in search of a girl named Penny,’ he said. She did not reply. ‘The dogs seem to think they have followed
her scent here. I am a friend of Mrs Smith – Penny’s mistress. She was killed and we are worried about Penny’s safety. Please, miss, I know I look a fool but have you seen a girl? She is nineteen or so, with dark hair. We fear she may be injured or have been taken against her will.’

  There was a footstep from inside the house and a tall young man emerged from a door on the left of the hall. Francis stared at him in amazement. He wore no wig, just his own hair, close-cropped, and his skin was a dark gold. He hesitated as he saw Francis, then lifted his chin.

  ‘Ridiculous,’ he said. ‘There is no Penny here, just myself and Mrs Rogers. Leave at once.’

  Francis bent down and released the dogs. They yelped in happy amazement and went dashing into the hall, then barking loudly, they ran straight up to the first floor, their white feathered tails wagging furiously and their claws tapping on the uncarpeted marble stairs.

  Francis bowed. ‘I shall leave, but not before I have seen what trail these dogs are following.’ He walked past them.

  The young man was astonished. ‘I shall call the footman and have him throw you out.’

  Francis was too tired to care. ‘Then call him.’

  He climbed the stairs two at a time and found the dogs snuffling and scratching at one of the doors which led off the landing. He tried the handle but found it locked. The young man had hastened up the stairs behind him.

  ‘Open the door for me,’ Francis said. ‘If you do not, I shall break it down.’

  The other man sighed very deeply, produced a fat key from his waistcoat and handed it over with a slight bow.

  Francis unlocked the door and the dogs tumbled in. It was a bedroom, on the south-east corner of the house, with windows on two sides. The dogs dashed up to the bed and sat on their haunches in front of it, panting and proud. Francis walked quickly over. There was a body lying under the covers. He pulled the sheet down until he could see the face. Penny. There was a bandage wrapped around the side of her head and her breathing was loud and laboured, but she was breathing. Francis closed his eyes and thanked God. The young man was still standing in the doorway. Francis took in the elegance of his clothing, and the beauty of his face.

  ‘How came she here?’

  The man shrugged. Francis looked around him. There was a table in front of the fireplace with armchairs on either side. He took one facing the bed and slung his bag onto the floor beside him. The young man crossed the room with a slightly swaying walk, and took the other, then crossed his legs and put his chin in his hands.

  ‘I must make a confession. I am afraid I have no footman.’

  Francis almost smiled. He had not had the heart to open the pack that Scudder had handed him when he left the house that morning. Now he did so, he found two bottles of beer, bread and cheese, and a pair of pistols complete with powder and ball. That explained the weight of the pack at least.

  ‘Are you going to shoot me and Mrs Rogers? We didn’t hit the girl, you know.’

  ‘Then I shan’t shoot you unless you make any move to harm her.’

  ‘Do you wish to know my name?’

  ‘I do.’

  ‘My name is Dauda. Do you like it?’

  Francis cleared his throat. ‘I do. I was born Yoruba.’

  Dauda opened his hazel eyes very wide. ‘And so what are you now?’

  Francis folded the bag and placed it on the ground. The dogs seemed to take this as some sort of signal and came to flop, glowing with achievement, at his feet. He reached down to rub their heads. Time was, he had found the British attitude to their animals incomprehensible. Perhaps he had become English, after all.

  Dauda was still looking at him. ‘Even if I don’t have a footman, I might send Mrs Rogers to fetch help.’

  ‘Unless she can find someone and bring them here before I load these guns, Dauda, then I will shoot the first one who comes into this room.’

  Dauda considered this, then shrugged. ‘She cannot be moved, you know, Mr Glass. She is a sick little girl. So perhaps we cannot get you out, but then you cannot leave to get help either, can you?’

  Francis had already realised this. The risk that some harm would come to Penny while he went looking for assistance was too great. ‘My friends have some idea where I am. I shall wait for them.’

  Dauda frowned and put his head on one side. ‘What if I send for the man who brought her here?’

  ‘I think the man who brought Penny here murdered the woman I loved, so please, Dauda, send for him. Then I may shoot him myself.’

  The other looked at him through half-shut eyes and long lashes. ‘You are a difficult boy to argue with! What is your real name?’

  ‘I have told it to you.’

  ‘That’s not the one you were given when you were born, dearest. That is a slave name.’

  ‘It was. Now it is the name of a free man. The girl is here – she lives. Do not try and shake me, Dauda, with talk of slaves. What are you?’

  He stretched his legs out and yawned, though Francis thought he was neither bored, nor tired. ‘I’m a musician.’

  Francis raised his eyebrows. ‘Are you?’

  ‘Yes, that is what I am.’ His voice suddenly pettish. ‘Though I will admit I have an audience of only one.’ There was the sign of real pain in his eyes at that and Francis felt for him. ‘Oh, put away that foul-looking cheese before it stinks up my lovely cage. I shall give you and your mutts a proper supper. Lord knows if any of us will live much longer. We may as well live in comfort while we can.’

  VI.4

  DR FISCHER CALLED IN the late afternoon. Cutter told him that they were closed to business and Francis was away, but nevertheless the Reverend was disposed to linger. He made some mention of papers belonging to Mrs Smith that he needed to consult and went into the office without waiting for permission. There he found Eustache and Joshua still at work. He smiled at both boys, then gave Joshua a shilling and asked him to fetch him a pie from the bake house, and something for himself if there was change. Joshua looked a bit baffled and glanced at Eustache. Eustache nodded to him and off he went. Fischer beamed at him as he went, then shut the office door behind him and turned to Eustache.

  ‘Eustache,’ he said gently, ‘where is it? It is very important you give it to me. The man who wrote it was quite mad, and everything he says in those pages is a lie. I am sure of that. It is fit only for the fire.’

  ‘You stole my report. You ruined the shop.’

  Fischer smiled his bright, handsome, confident smile. ‘I have a temper, I admit that it is a sin, I know, and one I struggle with every day. I was frustrated, Eustache, finding that the manuscript was not here and your rather detailed description of it was. But that does not matter. Give it to me.’

  Fischer towered over him, but Eustache was surprised to find he was not afraid. He looked into the square-jawed face of the Reverend, and thinking of what he had read, felt instead a pure white blossom of hate. ‘It is safe in Berkeley Square,’ he said. ‘Everyone will read it. And everyone will know you had Mr Hinckley’s bookshop broken into to try and get it. Then no one will come to listen to you talk. When they have read what I have read, they will throw stones at you in the street rather than hear you preach.’

  Fischer’s lips went thin and pale and his anger felt like sunshine on Eustache’s skin. ‘You are a child, you understand nothing of these things! I have made no secret of my time at sea or how I was employed.’

  ‘I understand this,’ Eustache said clearly and carefully. ‘You say you were a slaver as if it is being a real sailor, and we never thought about it. But you never said you were sorry. You said you were sorry for swearing, or drinking or thinking about women, you talk about spending the nights praying or reading your wife’s letters from home and writing to her every day and how you saw God’s face in a thunderstorm. Why didn’t you see God on the faces of the people you had dying in the hold? Why? You talked to us about spending weeks in Jamaica walking the hills and feeling yourself called to God, but I know that was not
all you did there! You are a dog. And soon everyone will know it.’

  Fischer’s chest rose and fell and his hands clenched into fists at his side.

  ‘When Mr Glass comes back, I shall tell him everything,’ Eustache said, every word tasting delicious to him. ‘Then Mr Ferguson will set it all in type and you’ll be done, dog. Graves will see it is read everywhere.’

  Fischer took three steps towards him and grabbed hold of his wrist, twisting his grip so it stung and pulled the boy close to him. His voice came in a hiss. ‘Graves will hate you for this.’ It was such a surprise to him, Eustache felt his skin go suddenly cold. Fischer shifted his grip, making the bones in Eustache’s wrist ache. ‘Think of those names in your little report, Eustache. Bankers, politicians, Sir Charles and his son. And they all have friends, all very good friends, and slavery is their money, their trade. It is England’s money, England’s trade – and every right-thinking Englishman agrees. You make trouble for us and we shall make Graves’s life hell. God, he must want rid of you already. Poor modest, oblinging Mr Graves, all he ever wanted was his wife and a chance to live his own life, but your murderous parents ruined that for him, didn’t they? He must loathe you, though he tries to be good, him and poor old Mrs Service, they do try so to like you, don’t they? And now you’re going to make it all a thousand times worse. Give me that manuscript, or for ever after, every time Graves looks at you, he’s going to wish you were dead. Every time.’ His voice had become a snarl. ‘Your family will be mocked in the papers till even your servants don’t want to look you in the face. Every scandal attached to your name will be repeated every morning in the press. None of the traders in London will deal with anyone who crosses the threshold. The little troupe of freaks and misfits from Thornleigh Hall have pushed the city too far, boy.’