Instruments of Darkness

by Imogen Robertson

  “You were right. Old Sir Stephen did not let anything escape his diaries. Here is what he said about Lady Thornleigh’s death: ‘I spoke to my lord, who freely admits he was with his wife when she fell, then looks me in the eye as if curious to see if I dare ask him anything further. Nothing easier than a fall. We all trip from time to time. I saw my lady laid out, and believe she appeared now to be peaceful, though perhaps that is just my mind trying to quiet itself, particularly given the unquiet moments I have had waiting for her to accuse her husband of the murder of that young girl a few years ago. The body was largely unmarked, though there was some bruising at the wrist as if she had been held. I asked the earl, who looked a little distressed and said he had tried to grab her wrist and hold her as she fell, but in vain. Whoever made those marks looked like they had a firm enough grip, but whether he tried to save her, or threw her down himself I cannot tell. The servant, Shapin, who saw the fall, had little of use to say—not that his testimony would have ever been taken against his master’s. And of course, Thornleigh was there in the room as we spoke. Shapin thinks she was alive still when he got to her. “I saw the light go out of her eyes, sir,” he said to me. The earl did not agree. “When your neck is broken, the lights go out at once, Shapin.” The latter looked meek enough and said he supposed he could be mistaken. My lord intends to spend most of his time in London when his wife is buried. I am glad of it. I hope his sons turn out to be better men than their father. They have at least half their mother’s blood.’”

  Crowther smiled. “Do you see it, Mrs. Westerman?” She put her hand to her forehead. “I think . . .” He brought his stick down on the heavily carpeted floor with a sudden thump. A little miasma of dust lifted and fell over his polished shoes. “We know. Tell me!”

  She looked up at him with sudden intelligence, saw the color in his cheeks, the chink of ice in his eyes.

  “Lord Thornleigh killed Sarah Randle, kept the locket with his own hair in it as a souvenir. His wife found it, challenged him, and was thrown down the stairs for her trouble and Shapin saw, saw perhaps more than he knew at the time.”

  “So he was removed from his friends, framed for a theft and transported to America.”

  “Where eventually he met Hugh . . .” Harriet said.

  “. . . and Wicksteed. I think that is the man for whose sake Captain Thornleigh is punishing himself. He must have killed Shapin. Wicksteed knew it—and knew why.”

  “And has used that knowledge to run the Hall since he got free of the army.”

  Crowther relaxed, and smiled at her.

  “I believe that may be it. A pretty set of neighbors you have, Mrs. Westerman. Shall we go and visit the local poisoner now?”

  Augustus Gladwell was one of the tallest men Mrs. Westerman had ever laid eyes on, and so thin he made Crowther seem stout. Crowther peered at him with such interest Harriet was almost uncomfortable. His cheeks were hollow, and his hair sparse and silvered, tied simply at the nape of his neck. The shop was of a good size, though the enormous height of its owner made it seem lower and more boxy than it should. The tools of his trade were all about him. The wall behind his counter was fitted with a set of a hundred small drawers, each labeled in a spidery copperplate. The counter itself, and side tables, were stacked with large jars, curled and glittering in the afternoon sun. Harriet was surprised she had never had cause to come here herself in the four years she had called Caveley her home. She had purchased from here, but only via her servants. The smell reminded her of her own kitchen when Mrs. Heathcote was making the preserves for winter. Oil of cloves hung in the air, which made the room taste to her like autumn even on a summer’s day. The counter also supported a number of sets of balance scales, one which would have done for potatoes, down to the smallest which Harriet was sure could measure the weight of her own breath, so fine and delicate it seemed.

  Mr. Gladwell smiled at them, and stooped forward.

  “You are Mr. Gladwell, sir?” Crowther asked. The man nodded slowly. “I am Gabriel Crowther. I was recommended to visit you by Sir Stephen.”

  The man’s eyes lit up with genuine affection.

  “He is one of my best customers, and one of my most challenging. I believe I have heard your name, sir, and was hoping to make your acquaintance.”

  His voice was oddly whispering, like parchment being blotted with sand. Crowther looked around him in great contentment.

  “I feel I have found a friend here, sir.” Crowther peered into one of the glass jars where something floated that Harriet had decided for her own peace of mind not to attempt to identify. “How old is this preparation?”

  “Two years.”

  “Remarkable.”

  “I spent as much time on the sealant to the jar as the liquid itself. But I have heard you have a remarkable collection.”

  The two men leaned toward each other over the jar. Harriet cleared her throat, and Crowther straightened reluctantly.

  “I hope we will have time to discuss these matters fully, but first, my friend wishes to ask you something.”

  Harriet smiled politely and stepped forward. “I need something to kill my mice,” she said.

  Gladwell frowned a little. “Mrs. Westerman, your housekeeper had something appropriate from me for the animals in your long barn only a month ago.”

  Harriet blinked and fluttered her hands. “Oh, but I was told by the Thronleigh household that they have something even better, and I think we should try that.”

  The frown deepened, and the traces of welcome seemed to disappear from Gladwell’s face, as if blown away by a desert wind.

  “They have just the same preparation as your house, madam.”

  “But I thought Mr. Wicksteed—”

  Crowther interrupted her. “Enough, Mrs. Westerman.”

  Gladwell looked up at him in surprise. Crowther leaned on his cane and looked at his companion.

  “Remarkable as your performance often is, I am sure that we shall get more from Mr. Gladwell with a little plain dealing.”

  Harriet dropped her smile. “Really?”

  “I am sure of it.”

  Harriet shrugged and took a seat next to one of the side tables. The jar at her elbow contained a mouse with two tails. Its lids were closed, dreamily, and it floated as if in free flight across the skies. She resisted the temptation to tap on the glass and see if it would open its eyes and look at her. Mr. Gladwell remained frowning behind his counter, watching Crowther.

  “Joshua Cartwright was poisoned on Sunday evening in Hartswood. Arsenic. I suspect it was the steward at Thornleigh who had him killed, and wondered if he had recently bought arsenic from you.”

  Mr. Gladwell held Crowther’s gaze for a long moment. At last he cleared his throat.

  “I assume, Mr. Crowther, that you—”

  “Yes, we tested what was left in the bottle on a dog.” Harriet winced in spite of herself. “It was certainly arsenic. Did Wicksteed buy any from you?”

  Rather than answer at once, Mr. Gladwell stepped round from the counter and crossed the room to shut the street door and pull down the blind. He seemed to cross the space in a single step, more unfolding and folding his limbs again than walking.

  “Perhaps I can offer you both a little refreshment? If you would be so kind as to step into the parlor.”

  Mr. Gladwell’s private rooms at the rear of the shop were not very different in style or furnishing from those in which he conducted his business, but here the chairs were designed for longer occupation, and the drawers of herbs and tinctures gave way to leather-bound volumes. The oddities in jars, however, became a little more prevalent. Mr. Gladwell seemed to have a predilection for the unusual in nature, suggested by the mouse with two tails, and confirmed in his sitting room by a lizard with two heads. This specimen the men discussed at some length until tea was served and they took their seats. Mr. Gladwell’s cup looked like a child’s in his long thin hands, so white they made the glistening china look dull and yellowed. “Thank y
ou for your frankness, Mr. Crowther,” Gladwell began in his sandy voice, after a little beat of silence that suggested they were moving forward to a new topic. “What I told Mrs. Westerman is perfectly true. The preparation Thornleigh Hall take for ridding themselves of unwanted animal life is just as we have supplied to Caveley, and it is based on strychnine—not arsenic. But I had a conversation recently that I think I should share with you.”

  Harriet put down her cup, making space to do so on the side table by edging along a jar out of which a bull’s eye stared kindly at her.

  “We should be interested to hear,” she said.

  The giant smiled slowly.

  “I have a number of competitors in the area. Some are good men, some I think are not. One of the latter dropped into my shop only yesterday. He hoped he might commission me to carry some pill of his own devising against gout. He made various claims for it, which I thought extravagant and perhaps I did not hide the fact. He grew a little angry with me.”

  He smiled thinly at the memory, and raised his hand as if to brush his colleague’s crossness away. Harriet was reminded of her horse flicking its tail at the summer midges.

  “His pride was a little hurt, I thought, and he told me not to rely on Thornleigh Hall as a customer in the future, as he himself was now having dealings with them. However, it was not Mr. Wicksteed who made the purchase of which he spoke. He told me he had sold one hundred grains of arsenic on Saturday morning, to Lady Thornleigh herself.”

  Harriet swallowed suddenly and Crowther set down his cup. After a moment he spoke.

  “That is a considerable amount.”

  “Indeed. Enough to rid the whole town of its mice. And cats. And dogs. I think my colleague was proud to have made such a large sale. He will always sell more than his clients require, and never suffers them to leave his shop empty handed. I know several people who have entered his shop quite healthy, and left convinced they were in fact on the point of death as a result of any number of maladies. They think themselves blessed and lucky to have chanced in on him at just the right moment to avoid disaster.”

  Crowther smiled at his fingertips. “That cannot be good for your own business, sir.”

  The giant lifted his thin shoulders. “Most return to me in the end. He does not do many of them lasting damage, but the sale of such a large quantity of arsenic stayed in my mind.”

  Crowther flexed his hand. “As you say, Mr. Gladwell, it is indeed a thing to be noted. Did you know Mr. Cartwright?”

  “In passing, as all of us in trade do in the county. He did not seem a man who deserved to die in such a way. Arsenic sends our bodies to hell long before the soul escapes to join it. And Lady Thornleigh took such a quantity. I hope you do not break bread at her table, for your sakes.”

  Harriet took up the cup again. The eye in the jar shook a little as if trying to catch her attention.

  “We do not. But I do not like living so near.”

  7

  “Do you wish to go to the squire?” Crowther was on the point of handing Mrs. Westerman into her carriage in the forecourt of Pulborough’s best coaching inn. Harriet turned to him, one foot on the ground, one raised onto the step of the elegant little barouche she used for local journeys, her hand in his.

  “But we do not know how Wicksteed heard of the meeting with Brook, and our conclusions about Shapin are guesswork at best. Do you think ...?”

  But before the thought was completed two young men, their rough shirts flying, barreled into the lady and gentleman. With sudden shock Harriet found herself thrown to the ground, and felt her ankle twist under her. Her back hit hard against the high wheel of her coach. She heard her coachman, David, roar and leap from his seat, shouting at his boy to hold the frightened animals steady. Crowther’s cane crashed to the ground, and rolled from his grip across the cobbles. David grabbed one of the lads, twisting him by the collar. The other spotted Crowther’s cane, and as Crowther reached for it, brought down his heel on the slender strength of the wood. It cracked between the pillowlike stones of the yard. Crowther struggled to his feet with a yell, managing to catch his attacker’s face with the back of his hand as he rose. The youth’s head jerked back and he lifted his fist, then laughed, and spat at his feet. Crowther reached for him again, but the lad was too quick and darted over to his companion, throwing himself between him and Harriet’s red-faced coachman to break the grip. They ran from the yard at full tilt with David pursuing as Crowther turned to Harriet and began to help her to her feet. Already the inn’s landlady had come hurrying across the cobbles, her apron ballooning around her in a cloud of upset.

  “Oh, Good Lord! What on earth?” She put her arm around Harriet’s shoulder and helped to raise her.

  “I’m quite all right. Just winded, I think.” She tried to put her weight on the hurt ankle and went rather white, then shifted her balance to allow Crowther’s arm to take most of her weight.

  The landlady seemed on the point of tears. “I cannot believe it! I’ve never seen such a thing.”

  Harriet tried to smile at her. “Really, Mrs. Saunderton, I am quite well. It is nothing. A couple of foolish young men.”

  Crowther looked about him. In the doorway of the inn he saw the familiar form of Wicks teed. He was smiling at them, his arms crossed over his chest. David came running back into the yard. Crowther noticed the little boy’s at the horses’ heads look of relief as he handed over the bridle. That must be Jake Mortimer, the sewing woman’s nephew. He could see David had been injured in his struggle with the man. The skin around his eye was already very red.

  “Sorry, ma’am. They got away from me in the square.”

  Mrs. Saunderton was trying to knock the dust of her yard from the long folds of Harriet’s dress; the latter put out a hand to stop her.

  “Not at all, David. Thank you. Are you injured?”

  “Not worth mentioning, Mrs. Westerman.”

  The landlady was still trembling with distress. “I don’t think I’ve laid eyes on either of those lads before. Oh, Mrs. Westerman, what you must think of us! Will you not come in for a moment to recover? What a shock!”

  Harriet managed a smile. “Thank you, no. I am sure I am quite well, now I have caught my breath. But how strange ...”

  Her eyes drifted away from the landlady and she too caught sight of Wicksteed. Her face lost all its color and the voice died in her throat.

  Crowther stepped forward. “I think Mrs. Westerman would be better recovering from the shock in her own home.”

  Harriet nodded and began to turn toward the carriage again. As she put her foot on the step she almost fell. David swung down from his seat.

  “Hold the horses, boy.” He was by her side in a second. “If you’ll allow me, ma’am?”

  She blushed and nodded, putting an arm around the young man’s shoulders, allowing him to lift her bodily in his arms and place her comfortably in the carriage. He returned unsmiling to his seat. Crowther climbed up to take his place, still aware of Wicksteed grinning at them from his post at the edge of the forecourt. He heard a little cough next to him, and peered over the barouche’s side into the yard. Harriet’s new stable boy stood below him, holding up the two pieces of his cane. He looked up, very white and nervous. His new coat seemed a little on the large side. Crowther looked down into his round, unformed face, a picture of a life yet to begin, then put out his hands to take the pieces, his thin, papery skin, spotting in places with brown, his bony fingers lifting the remains of his cane from the boy’s fresh palms. He nodded.

  “Good lad. Thank you.”

  The boy smiled and clambered up to ride next to David. Wicksteed stood upright and sauntered over to Harriet’s side of the carriage. He hardly sketched a bow, but spoke a few words to her, and with a nod to Crowther moved away again. Mrs. Saunderton looked a little confused. Wicksteed gave her a broad grin and she bobbed a curtsy, doubtfully, in his direction. Harriet said clearly, “Drive on.”

  David clicked to the horses. They lift
ed their hooves and with a jerk and clatter the carriage began to move. Crowther carefully placed the remains of his cane on the seat next to him and leaned forward.

  “What did he say?”

  “That it is beginning.”

  Crowther sat back into the corner of the carriage and crossed his hands in his lap.

  8

  David carried Mrs. Westerman from the carriage to the salon, then was hurried into the kitchen to have his own injuries dealt with. Mrs. Heathcote returned moments later with hot water in a basin, and strips of linen over her shoulder, to find Miss Trench at her sister’s feet trying to remove her shoe. The scene was too feminine for Crowther, and with a nod to his hostess over the shoulders of her nurses, he left his broken cane on the desk, and stepped out of the French windows for a moment to walk among the lavender. His steps eventually took him to the front of the house, and he paused under the oak tree that Commodore Westerman had thought would be a guardian to his family in his absence. The summer breathed through the leaves, making them sigh heavily. Crowther leaned his weight against the trunk.

  “We have made a poor job of it, friend,” he said, resting his palm against the bark.

  There was a movement by the gate, and he turned to see two horsemen entering the driveway. The first was Michaels on his favorite ride, a beast as massive as himself who had a reputation as a biter. He had his arm out to the other rider, as if holding him in his saddle. As they came a little closer Crowther recognized Clode, the lawyer they had sent down to London. Both men started, then encouraged their horses forward as he emerged from the shade of the tree. Daniel began to dismount as they came abreast of him, and his slim form almost dropped into Crowther’s arms. The latter held him by the shoulders.

  “The children?”

  Clode looked feverish, and worryingly pale under his stubble.

  “Well. Safe. Legitimate.”

  His relief was such, Crowther flung his arms around the boy and held him for a second. Michaels had dismounted, and as Crowther released him, he put a beefy arm around Clode’s shoulders.