Moving past them into the wide open space of the hospital itself, he followed the route he had taken with Hawkshaw and Wicksteed into the main area. It was as lofty as a church. The howls from where the surgeon did his work were a little deadened by the stone. The men here were mostly quiet, content now, it seemed, to wait quietly until death took them, or their bodies showed themselves willing to recover. He found three of his men, and heard news of two others who had died under the knife. Two he found with their wounds dressed, but telling him, in dubious tones, that the balls that had wounded them had been left intact rather than dug out. Thornleigh was not fit to talk surgical fashions. The straw scattered between the bed-rolls was slippery with blood. He fetched water again. Sat and let the others talk, told the story of his own wound, and heard it being repeated between beds. It began to darken, and the pain was making him sick. He needed to think about Hawkshaw and use all the drink he had to wash some of the day away. He could feel the energy that had carried him through the action retreating, leaving him hollow and sounding to the horrors. He was already on his way out of the doors when he felt a presence at his shoulder and turned to see Wicksteed beside him, washed to his elbows in blood.
“Captain Thornleigh!” Wicksteed came a little closer and peered up at his wound. “You should let the surgeon look at that, Captain Thornleigh, before you go.”
“He has more pressing business.”
He turned to go again, but Wicksteed’s fast right hand caught him on the sleeve and detained him.
“Captain Hawkshaw?”
“Dead.”
Wicksteed plucked his hand back.
“Shame. He was a friend to me. Thought he might think of me, when this is all done.”
Thornleigh stared at him with his one eye. Wicksteed looked at the ground a moment, then drew himself closer to the larger man’s side, like a girl who needs a partner at a country ball. His hand rested on Thornleigh’s sleeve again. His fingers were black with gore.
“Let me wash the dirt out of that wound, Captain Thornleigh.”
Thornleigh didn’t reply, simply shook the hand from his sleeve and walked on. The need to escape was becoming a pressure behind his eyes. He was five minutes clear of the yard when a young ensign called him from across the street.
“Captain Thornleigh! Request from the governor. Soon as you’re cleared up, could you go to Stone Jail and see what you can get from the prisoners.”
Hugh frowned. “What nonsense is this? Pulling information isn’t my style. Why do they ask for me?”
The boy looked confused, he’d got his message the wrong way about.
“There’s a prisoner says he knows you. Name of Shapin. Asks for you. Governor hopes he might get chatty with you.”
Hugh remembered Hawkshaw’s story, nodded wearily and turned again. The ensign looked nervous, but lifted his voice.
“Sorry, sir, but soon as you can, they said. Don’t know how long he’ll last.”
Hugh kept walking, the pressure behind his eyes continuing to build.
PART V
1
TUESDAY, 6 JUNE 1780
“On whose orders? On whose orders, I say?”
The shouts came from the side of the house, and with only a look between them Harriet and Crowther turned off the path to the front of Thornleigh Hall and made their way in that direction. Their feet made very little noise on the gravel. They turned the corner to see Wicksteed with his back to them, one arm raised, a crop in his hand, his other hand fastened around the wrist of a maid about Rachel’s age. One of the doors to the kitchens in the basement was open; a number of the Thornleigh domestics crowded round it, watching. She must have fallen as Wicksteed dragged her out and up the steps. Some of her hair had escaped from under her cap and she was crying. The hand that was free she held up, ready to ward off the crop. She spoke in a high shriek as he lifted his arm still higher.
“I thought it best! He was drunk! You’d gone to bed, Mr. Wicksteed!”
Wicksteed pulled her up to her knees.
“Thought it best! A thinker, are you? You think you can lock your master in his rooms, for the best?”
He twisted her wrist and she squealed again.
“He was drunk, sir! I don’t have the key to the gun room, but the key to the salon was in the lock! He had a fire in there! I thought I could open it in the morning, and no one would know! I’m glad I did it!”
Harriet and Crowther could see the spittle from Wicksteed’s mouth hitting her in the face. His voice was almost a scream.
“Glad, are you?” He brought the crop down. The girl squirmed but he had her firmly enough. It struck across her cheek with a slapping crack that rebounded off the walls. Harriet recoiled. As Wicksteed raised his hand again, Crowther closed the last few paces between them and lifted his cane so it held Wicksteed’s right arm in the air.
“Little trouble with the domestics, Wicksteed?” he drawled.
Wicksteed whipped round, his breathing hard, his face scarlet.
“My own business,” he hissed.
Crowther smiled thinly at him, kept his cane where it was.
“Come now. I think you have made the girl sorry enough, don’t you?”
He kept his eyes on Wicksteed’s face, but the latter glanced down at the girl at his feet. The blow showed as a dead white line on the unnatural red of her face. The skin had broken by her eye. Wicksteed spat on the ground.
“Release her, please.” Crowther spoke very softly, very slowly. Wicksteed let her wrist go. She began to massage it. “Run along now, my dear,” Crowther added, without moving.
She seemed to waken, and scuttled off her knees and back toward the kitchen, where she was hauled in through the door by her fellow servants like a shipwreck victim gathered into a lifeboat. Crowther waited a long moment before moving his cane. Then he set it back on the ground and leaned on it. Wicksteed stared at the space in front of him where the girl had been, his chest rising and falling, then without looking again at Crowther or Harriet, he turned on his heel and marched away.
Harriet took a few steps to bring her to Crowther’s side.
“You don’t need that stick at all, do you, Crowther?”
He watched Wicksteed’s retreating figure.
“I needed it yesterday. Today I am just enjoying its company.”
He offered his arm and they turned back toward the front of the house.
“He wants to be a gentleman,” Harriet commented.
“Wicksteed? Horsewhipping women hardly seems the way to go about it.”
She smiled. “No, I’ve had no chance to tell you as yet. I visited yesterday and had a look through his desk.”
“I take it you didn’t find the notebooks detailing all his crimes?”
She wrinkled her nose. “No, one of his desk drawers is locked. I did find drafts of a rather unctuous letter to the College of Arms, though. And we have just seen that he is capable of violence against a woman.”
Crowther murmured, “There are times when we are all capable of that.”
Harriet chose to ignore him and continue her own train of thought. “I am sure that he has some hold over Hugh.”
“You think he sent the bottle to Cartwright by Hugh’s hand, too?” Crowther gave a slightly exasperated sigh.
And when she nodded, “Why, though, Mrs. Westerman? There is no sense in it. If he has this hold over Mr. Thornleigh, then his wishing to remove the threat of Alexander’s return, or that of his heirs, has some logic to it. But if that is his wish, then he would surely not want Hugh to be hanged for his crimes. And why would he want the man to have the freedom to shoot himself? There can be no other interpretation of the scene we have just witnessed. He was angry that his benefactor could not shoot himself while drunk because of the actions of that little maid. That hardly suggests his fortunes depend on Hugh.”
Mrs. Westerman did not look dismayed.
“Perhaps his allegiances are elsewhere now, Crowther. If both Hugh and Alexander ar
e removed, then the control of the family wealth falls to Lady Thornleigh. He may think her a better patron.”
The remark made Crowther stop, then with a shrug he moved on.
“There is no proof,” he said. “Nothing. Speculation and gossip and a bottle of poison is all we have, and they point clearly at Hugh.”
“Isn’t the proper scientific method to suggest a hypothesis and then look for the evidence to support it?”
“No, it certainly is not. It is to observe, gather all the information one can, then hypothesize with a great deal of circumspection and care.”
Harriet shrugged. “I like my method better.”
Crowther did not reply, only gave a speaking sigh as they approached the entrance to the house.
They were not the first visitors of the morning. As they waited under the heavy ornament of the hallway, they saw Squire Bridges pause on the stairway, taking, it seemed, a very friendly farewell from Lady Thornleigh. He bent low over her hand, his eyes looking up into her lovely face with great warmth. She was smiling at him, with her head a little to one side, and with some last word turned from him and made her way out of sight toward the state rooms above. The squire began to descend the stair, then caught sight of them, and his step faltered a little. The lines on his forehead deepened.
“Crowther. Mrs. Westerman. You are making an early call.”
Crowther smiled. “Not as early as yourself, sir.”
Bridges drew himself up. “I have business here at the moment, as I am sure you can imagine. Though I do not understand what might be your matter here.”
They regarded each other steadily for a while. Crowther began to wonder how long the match might last when a maid appeared at their side.
“Lady Thornleigh’s apologies, but she is unable to receive guests today. She is feeling a little unwell.”
The squire’s face took on an air of great contentment. Crowther turned to him with one eyebrow raised.
“I do hope your visit did not render her bilious, sir.”
He reddened, and was on the point of reply when Hugh, pale and un-shaved, entered from one of the lower corridors.
“Mrs. Westerman! Crowther! Come in. I will see you, even if my respected stepmother will not.”
The squire did not look at him, but turned away. As they followed Hugh through the archway into the old meeting hall, Crowther glanced at Harriet’s face.
“The squire was once a great friend to us, Crowther,” she whispered.
“He is a politician.”
“And seems to have joined the party of Lady Thornleigh. I thought they hated each other.”
“He must believe he has evidence that is sure to hang Hugh, and is hoping to make friends with the new power in the house.”
Hugh looked back at them over his shoulder. “What are you whispering about?”
They were entering the old hall of the house. It had been built some two hundred years before the rest. The modern property had been conjured around it, an elegant frontage on the ancient heart of the place. It was still stone-flagged, the furniture massive and dark. The walls were hung with old arms and portraits so stained with age one could hardly make out the stiff profiles of the first earls of Sussex that brooded high above them. At the far end of the Hall two halberds bearing the arms of the family on rotting silk were crossed on the wall. The huge empty fireplace could have roasted a whole ox. Probably had, Harriet thought, as the first earls drank with their dogs and servants and dragged in parcels of game across the flagstones from their hunt, the stag’s head loose and sightless, slipping and bouncing over the stone, while the dogs leaped and yapped at it.
Hugh approached the wide oak table in the center of the room. Harriet moved toward him, her dress whispering on the stone floor as she moved.
“We did not know the squire and Lady Thornleigh were on such good terms.”
Hugh reached for the wine bottle on the great table a little uncertainly.
“They are negotiating over my blood.” His fingers closed around the thin green neck, he lifted it and began to slop the claret into one of the large glasses. It splashed a little over the rim.
“Bridges is in hock to us. It never worried me—I’m told he pays the interest in a regular fashion. A political loan of my father’s, I think. I dare say my beautiful mama has been promising it will cause him no trouble if I am hanged and control comes to her, but if he looks too hard in other directions, then he will not find Thornleigh a friendly broker when I am gone. Or dead by my own hand. She will make him suffer—whatever she says to him now.”
The evenness of his tone horrified Harriet.
“Hugh, please! What is happening in this house?”
Thornleigh put down the wine glass, but kept his head turned away. Harriet walked quickly toward him, brushing off as she did the warning hand Crowther had placed on her sleeve.
“Did you murder that man, Carter Brook, kill Nurse Bridges, poison Joshua? I cannot believe it. Will you not save yourself? Mr. Thornleigh, your brother . . .”
Hugh spun round and grabbed her by the wrist. His wine glass toppled from the table and smashed on the old stone flags below them. The shattered crystal seemed to chime in the air.
“What do you know of Alexander, Harriet?” He pulled her toward him. His living eye danced over her face. “Is he alive? Have you found him?”
She stared at him, caught between fear and pity. The pink and yellow scarring across his cheek and eye looked like a mockery of hope. She felt Crowther move a little closer toward them. She could see tears forming in Hugh’s eyes. So the damaged one could still grieve, even when it saw nothing. She gently pulled her wrist free of him and stepped back a little way. She could feel bruises beginning to bloom under her cuffs like sprays of foxglove opening darkly under her skin. She shook her head, spoke softly, hesitating.
“He is dead, we think. Murdered some days ago in London. It was reported in the Advertiser. Alexander Adams—we think that is the name he was using in town.”
Hugh turned away with a roar of laughter.
“Done! Done! Dead and done.” Harriet stepped further back. “Then it is over. They have bound me and whipped me. All over! To think what I would have given to hear that name a week ago, what I was prepared to give to Brook—and now you give it to me during a morning call, and it is nothing. Useless! A thousand times worse than useless.”
He rested his head above the cold maw of the great fireplace, and struck his open palm against the old stone. Harriet waited till the echo had retreated back into the impassive walls. When Hugh dropped his arm to his side again, she could see the place where he had brought down his hand spotted in red.
“Who, Mr. Thornleigh? Who has done this? Are you in Wicksteed’s power? We must get your neck out of this noose, and show the court where the true blame lies.” When he did not move, she entreated him. “Would you leave this place in the hands of a pack of murderers? Will you always be remembered as a coward, a poisoner, a killer of the weak? You are a soldier!”
Hugh laughed in her face.
“Oh my dear, idiotic, Mrs. Westerman. You and your kind are babies! Crowther comes from old blood. He knows as well as I—this place has always been in the hands of a pack of murderers! It is a noble tradition. We take our responsibilities most seriously. And what do I care what is said when I am dead? Do you believe it will trouble me in the other place? I will happily swap this hell for another. I did not kill Brook, or poison Cartwright, but perhaps I deserve the noose just the same. Wicksteed has given Bridges my bloody knife, and I will not explain myself further. Let it come! Let them hang me! I shall avoid putting a bullet in my brain to give them all the grand spectacle. Let them see me choke! That’s my gift. The crowd loves to see a noble swing, don’t they, Crowther?”
Crowther was looking into the fireplace. Harriet thought she saw him give a simple sharp nod. She stepped forward again.
“Hugh! Is it Wicksteed? What hold can he have on you that you will not break f
ree even now?”
He looked at her. His face was wet and red with tears; it made the scars across his cheek glisten like fresh meat. He trembled; she held his gaze, willing him to open his lips. He looked hard into her face, then sighed and turned away. His passions seemed to fall from his shoulders, leaving him diminished, weak.
“I am guilty. Do not make an enemy of Wicksteed, Mrs. Westerman. For the sake of your family.”
He let his boot circle in the space of the grate, as if stirring imaginary ashes. Harriet put her hand on his arm, pulling him around to look at her.
“A man murders your friends, has your brother killed, and you go to the noose for him? This is ridiculous, Thornleigh. What possible—”
He clenched his fists.
“Enough! I have my reasons. And it is my fault, Mrs. Westerman.” His fists opened out, anger became supplication in a moment. “I am guilty. Now get the hell out of this house, and stay away. Alexander gave me that advice once. I tried to follow it and him, but it pulls us back. You may escape it yet. Go. Please. Go.”
They left the room, but not his house. Crowther thought at first Mrs. Westerman would be inclined to withdraw. He could feel the eddies of fear and confusion twisting around her. But she did not lead him to the grand entrance of Thornleigh, rather further into the house.
“Are you quite sure about this?” he murmured as soon as he became aware of the direction she was taking.
“Quite sure.” Then she stopped and looked up at him. He noticed the healthy white of her eyes. Wondered how long she had till they reddened with the scars of seeing to resemble his own. “Should we have told him about the children?”
Crowther sighed. “I cannot say. I simply cannot say.”
She seemed satisfied and raised her hand at the door of the housekeeper’s sitting room. A small middle-aged woman lifted the latch to them. Her eyes were red, and the apron over her day-dress tied carelessly. Harriet smiled at her, and saw a glint of relief in her eye.
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