Instruments of Darkness caw-1

by Imogen Robertson

  Harriet smiled, though without looking up from her reading.

  “I shall be revenged, however,” Crowther went on. “Sir Stephen is to visit me in a week to have a tour of my preparations.”

  Harriet looked up at that. “I don’t envy your staff keeping those horrors clean,” she remarked. “And is Sir Stephen worthy to be shown the discoveries of the great Mr. Crowther?”

  Crowther placed his hands on top of his cane and rested his chin on them. If he noticed her satirical tone, he refused to rise to it.

  “He is not unintelligent, if a little keen to see God in everything-particularly in beetles-though I don’t think he would subscribe to my new theology. And my staff are not allowed to go anywhere near my preparations, which are, in their own way, very beautiful.”

  “We shall have to differ. I prefer the human body whole, and not injected with resins…. Damn, I have lost my place with all your chattering! No, here! You are come at a happy moment.”

  Crowther stood and stepped carefully around the piles of papers till he could peer over her shoulder. She held a fat, handwritten volume in her hand, and pointed to a passage in it.

  “Sir Stephen was right,” she said. “His father was also a great recorder of his observations, it seems, though he was more interested in men than insects, and I suspect less happy as a result, from what I have read. His notes are plentiful. The volumes for the thirties were behind those for the twenties, rather than alongside, and I now know a lot more about my older neighbor’s business than I should, but enough of that. I have found Sir Stephen’s journal for the year of Sarah Randle’s murder. It was in thirty-nine. He wrote about the death and search, and I have read it.” She looked up at Crowther. “It was not the squire who found her. It was our friend here.”

  Crowther lifted an eyebrow, and commented, “The current Sir Stephen cannot have been much more than a boy himself at that time.”

  Harriet nodded. “Only twelve, poor thing. The same age as Sarah. His father spills a lot of ink regretting that it was so, and fearing the shock would affect him badly. Bridges was of the party following, that much is true. Why would he lie to you, do you think?”

  “He wished to be at the center of the story, I imagine. I am flattered he sought to impress me. Is there any description of the body?”

  “Yes, but that is not the part I wish to show you.”

  “Indulge me, Mrs. Westerman.”

  She sighed and flicked back through the yellowing pages.

  “Here. ‘Her body was quite cold, and her dress damp with dew. . One stab wound. . ’ ”

  “One? The squire spoke of many, of a frenzied attack.”

  “More dramatization on his part, perhaps. One wound through the chest between her fourth and fifth ribs to her left.”

  “The heart. She would have died at once if the blade were long and sharp.”

  Harriet let her finger slip down the page. “Here. . ‘belly swollen with child …’ there at least the squire was accurate. A white scratch on her neck, but it had not bled.” She looked up at him again. “What is the significance of that?”

  “There could be none. But it suggests the injury took place after death.”

  “Something taken from round her neck?”

  “Something like a locket on a chain, indeed. What color was her hair?”

  “She was dark. He mentions her dark hair against the green of the long grasses. The hair I saw in the locket was blond.”

  “And do we know the natural color of Lord Thornleigh’s hair?”

  “He is powdered in all the portraits I know of, but Hugh’s natural color is fair, as was Alexander’s. Perhaps she was carrying a lock from her lover.”

  “The hair of a rich man in a locket she had bought herself. .” Crowther mused. “Perhaps that is why the peddler was caught up in the hue and cry. Some good burgher saw her buying it from him, perhaps. Poor child. Now, Mrs. Westerman, what were you so eager to show me?”

  She grinned and turned the pages till she found her place again.

  “Here. Shortly after the funeral, Lord Thornleigh came to see Sir Stephen. He said he had heard his name mentioned in connection with the murder, and wished Sir Stephen to make it clear there was no truth in the rumor.”

  “And Sir Stephen?” Crowther queried.

  “Said Lord Thornleigh could make use of the slander laws if he wished. He adds this. ‘My lord is growing from a wild youth into an unpleasant young man. I pity his tenants, I pity all of us over whom he has power.’ Then there is this. ‘I shall warn Bridges not to be so free with his romanticizing. I like Thornleigh no better than any of his neighbors do, but one cannot speak evils without proof and escape being damned onself, and Bridges will find, as do we all, that the influence of Thornleigh is deep and dangerous.’”

  “I grow to like Sir Stephen as I do his son. Will you pass me the diary, Mrs. Westerman. My eyes do not perform well in this gloom.”

  She handed the book to him, holding the place open rather awkwardly as she did so. There was a rustle as Crowther took the book, and a folded sheet fell from between the pages.

  Harriet pounced on it like a spaniel, but in a moment her face fell again.

  “A letter, but some inquiry and dated years later. An accident.”

  “I think Sir Stephen must have got his instinct to catalogue from somewhere. Are you sure it is not relevant?”

  She opened the paper again, and began to read. Her eyes widened, she turned the page in search of a signature and sighed again at finding none.

  “You are right, Crowther. Which is a rather annoying habit of yours.” Crowther had returned to his chair with the old justice’s journal, and bowed to her gently before he took his seat. She straightened out the sheet with care.

  “I shall read it to you: twentieth March 1748. ‘Dear Sir, I write with a question, though I fear I must ask for your answer to be delivered indirectly, secretly. I know you will take no pleasure in this. Yet I feel-I fear, sir-that the question must be asked and the answer given. I hope you shall agree. I have heard of the death some years ago of a young girl, Sarah. My question is this: did she have a locket, a thing of silvered tin, on an old pewter chain? And if so, was it taken from her at the time of her murder? It may seem a strange, meaningless pair of questions to you, sir. But they chill me and have pressed me down through many sleepless nights. If you answer yes to both these questions, then I must tell you that I believe I have seen this locket, and seen it among the possessions of a man of power, position and cruel temper. I may be going mad, and imagining demons at the end of my bed, where there is nothing not built by my own nerves. So I must await your answer. If the locket of which I speak did belong to the dead girl, will you wear the fob I enclose on your watch chain for a few days? I shall certainly see you in that time, and if you give me an answer in this manner I shall write again, and give you the name I dare not form on this paper now, and let you know where the locket may be found.’”

  Harriet looked up. Crowther was a gray shadow in the gloom, his fingers tented in front of him.

  “Yes, I would say that is relevant. Is there nothing further? No note from Sir Stephen?”

  “Not here. Where would your observers write their thoughts and actions?”

  Crowther turned to the last pages of the journal he held on his lap.

  “The system holds. Here, on the last pages of the book. My turn to read to you now, madam: ‘I place this letter alongside my journal for the year of Sarah Randle’s murder. I believed, still believe, that it was written by Lady Thornleigh, whose tragic marriage I observed, and whom I could not help. I wore the fob as requested from the moment I received the note, but no further communication arrived. I had been wearing it for two days when Lady Thornleigh suffered her tragic, fatal fall. I have drawn my own conclusions, and leave it to any future reader of these words to do the same. May God have mercy on their souls.’”

  He closed the pages and shut Sir Stephen’s words away from the light on
ce more, then looked across to see Harriet staring blindly out toward the windows, the faint flicker of greenery and sun at the edges of the shutters. The summer afternoon light softened the outline of her face, but he could still see one tear sliding down her pale cheek.

  4

  It took Daniel Clode far longer than he had expected to cross London. In the end, he left his horse in a respectable place on the edge of the city, hoping to travel faster on foot. It was already well past noon, and the hope was a vain one. Even before he realized the scale of the chaos that was running across the city in blue waves, he realized he would have trouble finding his way. His geography of the city was hazy at best, and he soon found himself in a tumbling network of streets and buildings and noise that left him startled and nervous. Twice he ended up returning to the same square when he was sure his direction had been due west. Here, in front and behind him, were things he had only read about. London was a harsher place than he had remembered.

  The young man began to wonder if Crowther and Mrs. Westerman had chosen him wisely, after all. He had visited the city only once before, a trip organized by his uncle on the graces of one of his better clients when he was a boy. They had traveled through the streets in a carriage. Daniel had hung onto the edge of the rattling vehicle and watched the people swarming past him with wide and curious eyes. He had seen a man, dressed as splendidly as a picture book, being jostled by a group of ragged-looking boys, their hoots and calls echoing as they waved his own handkerchief at him in farewell. He had seen animals driven through the streets, lifting their tails and fouling the road as gentlemen on high-stepping horses that looked like unicorns in disguise to him whipped them casually out of the way. He had seen the mackerel- and milk-sellers screaming their wares, and against the white stone walls, small groups of men huddled over bottles and dice. He leaned out a little way as they passed, and a woman, her pockmarks not fully concealed by ragged patches and dead white make-up, had reared up under the window and patted his cheek with her bony hand. And laughed at his horror and embarrassment, displaying the stumps of her last black teeth.

  Thinking of her again now, he glanced about him and held his bag tight to his chest. She had become in his mind a spirit of London, and he half-turned, expecting to see her on the street in front of him, mocking him. He stood still and the traffic surged around him. At last he put out his hand and stopped a man who looked at least clean, if not friendly. No one looked friendly.

  “Tichfield Street?”

  The man turned and looked at him suspiciously.

  “North of here,” he grunted, then, seeing the confusion on Clode’s face, explained further: “Just go to the end here, then right and follow your nose. It’s near Golden Square and if you hit fields, you’ve gone too far.”

  Daniel released him and nodded. The man took a step on, then turned back and scratched his head.

  “Mind how you go, sonny. Gordon’s lot are pretty hot round there.” As Clode nodded his thanks again, the man sighed and stepped back beside him. “And for the love of God, don’t carry your bag like that. Here-swing it round and to your side under your cloak. Seeing you clinging to it like that, I’m almost tempted to rob you myself.”

  He rearranged how it lay, moved back to admire what he had done, then had turned into the surge of the crowd again before Clode could even speak.

  “No.”

  “Miss, it’s very important.”

  “No. If you wish to leave a message with me, I shall see it gets to the children, but more than that I shall not do. You can have no business with them that can’t wait.”

  “I do-I have ridden all night to see them.”

  “Then tell it.”

  “It is confidential.”

  “Then it must wait.”

  Jane made to close the door in his face. Daniel held up his hand.

  “But I am a lawyer!”

  “Well, I’m very happy for you, sir. Good-bye.”

  The shop door was slammed. Clode turned and rested his back against it. He did not know what strength had carried him this far. The day was advancing, he could already taste the first notes of evening in the air. He had not slept and the long ride had sewn aches into his muscles like red threads, which pulled whenever he moved. He thought again of Nurse Bray, her wide face and little blue eyes counting off her bequests in the second-best office in his uncle’s establishment, his own nervousness in setting pen to paper, watching he made no blot for his uncle to lift his eyebrows at. He remembered the recitation of her modest wealth, her odd phrasing, her pride as she counted the bequests on her pink fingers: the brooch, the surprisingly large bequest for her friend. His tiredeness fell from him, and he spoke aloud to the oblivious air.

  “Mrs. Service, Tichfield Street.”

  He was shown into the modest parlor and took a seat on one of the two armchairs by the empty grate as Mrs. Service jiggled tea cups and leaves on her rackety little side table. Her cheeks were smooth, but each was dotted with red. Clode wished he could tell her she had no need to apologize for the dark little room, or the kitchen girl who had dragged up the hot water from the kitchen with a whistle and wink rather than a curtsy. Mrs. Service’s dress was worn and patched. Still, everything about her and her room was neat and clean. Clode wondered how many guests she had to entertain and how she spent her evenings in front of that empty fire with nothing but the noise in the street to keep her company.

  When it was time to speak, Daniel tried to choose his words carefully. He waited till he had taken and tasted the tea-weak and made with old leaves-and complimented it before he made any mention of the reason for her call.

  “I am sorry, ma’am, but I am afraid I have some bad news for you.”

  Mrs. Service put down her cup with great care and drew herself straight, ready to be brave. Clode’s heart pulsed; he could see in every line of her face that Mrs. Service had withstood bad news many times, and he silently wished her strength.

  “I am afraid a lady I believe to be an old friend of yours, Madeleine Bray, has died.”

  He waited for her to begin to cry. Instead her shoulders relaxed and she smiled at him.

  “Oh, no! My dear boy! I think you are mistaken. I had a letter from her only this morning.” Doubt suddenly drifted across her face. “Though I did think the tone of it a little strange. Not like herself.”

  He waited, and the fears began to show on her face.

  “Perhaps that was. . oh, oh dear. Really, sir? You are quite sure, the nurse, Madeleine Bray?”

  Clode put down his cup. “Yes, of Thornleigh Hall. I am sorry. It is my understanding she died on Saturday afternoon. My condolences.”

  Mrs. Service looked down at her lap. One hand tapped on the other on the unfashionable gray-green folds of material of her dress. She did not speak for some time. Clode began to realize she was made of stronger stuff than he had imagined.

  “Was it a fever, sir?” she asked quietly. “They can come on terribly quickly. Perhaps that letter was the first sign.”

  He cleared his throat. “I am sorry, no. I fear I must cause you more distress. She was found hanging in an old cottage on the Thornleigh estate.” He waited, unsure what he could or should say. He was very aware of those pale eyes watching him closely. “There is some debate as to whether the death was suicide, or-or something more suspicious.”

  The voice of Mrs. Service acquired an edge. Daniel realized as she spoke that the old lady was angry.

  “My poor Madeleine. She was murdered. She would never have turned her hand against herself.”

  “But you said yourself, in the letter, she did not sound herself.”

  “Oh, that’s quite different.” She got up briskly and pulled at the top drawer of a little chest under the room’s one mean window, producing a folded sheet and returning to her seat with it.

  “Here is the letter. I shall not bore you with the usual nonsense women of our age write to one another.” She paused suddenly, and her manner lost much of its sudden energy.
“I had already begun my reply to her, Mr. Clode. No need to finish that letter now, I suppose. Poor Madeleine.” Then she turned again to the paper in her hands. “Here is the passage that gave me some cause for concern: ‘My dear Beatrice’-that is myself, Mr. Clode-‘I wonder to what extent humble beings such as us should involve ourselves in the matters of our masters. There has been an incident here today, a shocking one, which has caused me much grief, and I shall write to you further of it in a later letter’-oh, how the gods laugh at us when we make our plans, Mr. Clode-‘but it has made me fretful, for I think I have information that may serve some in this household, but I do not know enough of the circumstances to know if I should speak or not. Perhaps I should say nothing, yet something weighs on this house. I have told you before, my dear, I think the Hall for all its comforts an unhappy and corroded place. It has made me suspicious, but I know no great evils of Mr. Hugh, so perhaps I should give him a hint. I am sure this reads as nonsense to you, but even writing it, I see your wise kind face, and that gives me the answer I need. I find I have another letter to write this evening, so must close this and leave you in confusion for a day or two. Forgive me, with best love, Madeleine.’”

  Mrs. Service looked up at Clode, and his blue eyes looked steadily back at her.

  “Do you know Mr. Hugh Thornleigh, sir? I think he is the son of the house where Madeleine was engaged.”

  “I have only seen him from a distance, but he is currently under suspicion of Nurse Bray’s murder, ma’am.”

  She nodded slowly, then said, “I wonder what the other letter was she had in mind to write. .”

  “Madam, I know nothing can soothe the wound we feel on losing a friend,” Daniel began, and a sad ghost of a smile lifted the corners of her mouth, as if she guessed he was too young to have suffered many such wounds, “but I drew up Mrs. Bray’s will for her. She has left you the sum of fifty pounds. If I may take the details of where you would like the money deposited, I can arrange the funds to be sent to you.”