Anatomy of Murder

by Imogen Robertson

  Rachel’s voice had grown more steady, but her tone was still insistent. “He has said nothing, how could he know? But if he did! Oh Harriet, if not for me, will you not think of your daughter? What of baby Anne? James is no longer able to grant you respectability and force people to think well of you.”

  “Graves, I think, accepts what I must do.”

  “Graves is an oddity in society, Harriet. He is tolerated because he controls the patronage of the Earl of Sussex’s estate. And he is a man.” Harriet flinched. Rachel closed her eyes for a long moment, then opened them again to look at her sister. Her green irises were ringed in gold: Harriet had forgotten that. Her tone when she spoke again was bitter and loaded with sorrow. Harriet had never heard it in her sister’s voice before. “Tell me, who will marry the sister or daughter of the notorious Mrs. Westerman?”

  Harriet felt a cold white rage begin to build under her skin.

  “Any man that wants her twenty thousand pounds will take Anne, Rachel. Just as Clode will swallow my behavior for your ten! The papers were drawn up before my husband became an imbecile. Your money is quite safe.”

  Rachel went very white as if she had been struck, then drew a shuddering breath. Harriet found herself thinking of Marin’s appeal to Manzerotti in the “Yellow Rose.”

  “You married for love, a respectable man. Yet you say you will give your daughter to some man who cares nothing for her reputation but wants only her money? How could any woman be happy with a man who took her on such terms? Listen to yourself, Harriet! Last summer your enemies threatened to make you an outcast and they failed. Yet in investigating another killing now you seem intent on doing their work for them. James has made his family rich, but we are not earls or barons. What is allowed to them will be marked against us. Already people talk. Are your children to be blighted before they come out of the schoolroom?”

  “Blighted?” Harriet raised an eyebrow and looked into her sister’s face. She was still so young. Her face was all velvet. Her lips trembled and she held her handkerchief clasped at her chest, a pattern of feminine distress. Harriet turned back to her desk and took up her pen again. “Thank you, Rachel. I think you can have nothing further to say at the moment. I shall see you at dinner.”

  Rachel stood and held out her hand. “Harry, I only say these things because I love—”

  Harriet held up her hand sharply, keeping her eyes fixed and unseeing on the new page in front of her.

  “Do not say it, Rachel. Leave.”

  She heard the tap of her sister’s slippers on the Earl of Sussex’s floorboards and the click as his finely fitted door closed behind her. Mrs. Westerman lowered her hand, but made no further movement for some time.

  5

  Jocasta arrived at the hedgerow at a smart pace, picked up Boyo by the scruff of his neck and dropped him into Sam’s arms.

  “Did he find something, Mrs. B?” And when Jocasta frowned at him: “Mrs. Bligh, I mean to say . . . ma’am.”

  She looked back into the grass without replying. The way was scattered with odds from the kiln behind them. The fires must have been burning there for fifty years, and it had had the time needed to throw its offcuts around. When the man who owned this field now turned them up with his plow, or the boy walking in front to guard his blades found any, they were picked up and chucked to the edges—thickened and twisted slices of unglazed slate, half-bricks. She took a step or two from the path and reached down to where Boyo had been snuffling. There was a little pile of stones here; not so raggedy and fallen-about-looking as the others, and whereas between all the other little heaps and falls, grasses had stuck their heads up and fallen back, no living thing had been given time to crawl up among these.

  Jocasta lifted the topmost piece and put it aside, then pushed away one or two from the edge. The bitter and sick taste crawled into her mouth.

  “What is it, Mrs. Bligh?” She felt the lad come up and look over her shoulder. “Oh. I see it.” His shadow slunk away again.

  Under the top slate sat a half-brick, with a jam of red on it and a little swirl of hair. The ends not caught up in the blackening slick gleamed guinea gold in the last of the daylight. Jocasta carefully placed the slate back on the pile, and looking about her added a couple more, then sat down on the stile and stared back the way they’d come.

  Sam tucked Boyo through the hedgerow beside her, so he could gad about without snuffling at the little stone tent she’d made.

  “Fools,” Jocasta said at last. “If they’d left that rock lying in the path, I might have said, ‘Jocasta, old girl, the cards are taking you scrambling.’” She patted the stile beside her. “Might have thought, the girl could have stepped up here and fallen off and knocked her head on one of these stones. Easy enough to do. Might have thought all those lies in the cards were just chatter and they were no more than mocking me with an accident to come. But no. Those two hid the stone—and that means they are as guilty as the serpent himself.”

  Sam put his head on one side. “But you’ve got them now, haven’t you? I mean, if you bring the constable out here or take him the brick . . .”

  “It’s the placing that tells the story, lad. They can say I did that if we don’t know the whys as well as the ways. Let it bide there. If we have a fuller story, then they’ll see it with our eyes. We’ve time.”

  Sam kicked at a bit of stone on the other side of the path. “But why are you looking so sudden sad now, Mrs. Bligh? You knew they did her in yesterday. You called them murderers to their faces, I heard you do it.”

  Jocasta leaned back, watched the sun turning the clouds purple and pink and sighed. “Don’t let anyone ever tell you, lad, that being right leads to being content. Most of the time in my experience it leads just the other way.”

  It was some time later that there was another knock at her door and Harriet jumped. She half-expected to see Rachel come back into the room, but it was Lady Susan who stepped in.

  “You and Rachel had a fight,” she said without preamble, and hopped up onto the bed.

  “Yes, we did, my lady. Did she send you to plead for her?”

  Lady Susan dropped back onto Harriet’s blankets and plucked at her skirts. “Pah! Of course not. There was shouting, then she ran out of here crying. Was she telling you you should be more ladylike?”

  Harriet twisted around in her chair to find Lady Susan’s clear blue eyes peering at her from the heap of cushions. “She was, in her way. How did you guess such a thing?”

  “When Graves or Mrs. Service is angry with me, that is usually the cause.”

  Harriet smiled. “They are right, Susan. Do not follow my way.”

  Lady Susan turned onto her front and sighed loudly. “But if you had been ladylike last year I might be dead now. And Jonathan. And Graves too, most likely. Isn’t that so?”

  It was a fair remark, and Harriet paused before answering. “Perhaps. But Rachel tells me I must think of baby Anne now.”

  Lady Susan crossed her ankles and scratched at her side, complicated maneuvers that dislodged her slippers from her stockinged feet.

  “Well. When Anne is nineteen, I shall be . . . twenty-eight, so very old and respectable and married, and rich and with plenty of rank. So I will find her a nice husband if you are too busy finding murderers and saving people like me.”

  Harriet was surprised to feel her throat tightening. “Thank you, Susan.”

  The little girl sprang off the bed and kissed her. “I’d be glad to, you know. Now it is time for you to dine soon, and Cook has been cross and had a great deal of trouble getting oysters today, so remember to be especially nice about them.” Then she pulled her slippers back on and was out of the room before Harriet could say another word.

  6

  Crowther had a sense of some danger as he mentioned to Harriet that he had asked Mr. Harwood to call on them after dinner, and then murmured his reasons for doing so. Mrs. Westerman’s movements were constrained, her only remarks insipid in the extreme and the muscle
s in her jaw tightened considerably when Rachel joined them. Once the formalities of dining were disposed of, rather more swiftly than usual, and she had spoken at some length of the quality of the oysters and demanded the recipe be brought to her as soon as convenient, Harriet retired to the library. Crowther did not linger long over his wine with Graves, and joined her there after only a few minutes.

  “Dear God, Mrs. Westerman, what was that?”

  She was slumped again in the armchair by the fire—which, Crowther hoped, indicated that her performance was at an end.

  “What are you talking about, Crowther?” she said wearily, without looking up.

  “I understand you have had some disagreement with your sister, but it seems cruel to subject Graves, Mrs. Service and myself to your simpering parody of good manners. I am glad it was not one of the occasions where Lady Susan dined with us.”

  Harriet folded her arms. “Do not lecture me, Crowther.”

  “You are a guest in this house.”

  Harriet was silent for a while. She had been angry, she still was, but it was that most bitter and uncomfortable anger that came with a sensation of guilt. She did not think it would ever occur to Graves, admiring her as he did, to question her behavior. For that kindness she had called him a fool in the blackness of her heart. Mrs. Service was never anything but reasonable and friendly. Rachel was still in many ways a prim little girl, much more the vicar’s daughter than Harriet, but she did not deserve Harriet’s scorn, and it had been scorn that was the driver of her performance at dinner. She had been mocking and humiliating Rachel, she had known she was doing it, and now here was Crowther to tell her so. Graves it had left confused, Rachel miserable, Mrs. Service slightly exasperated and Crowther angry, and she had got no relief from it.

  “Should I apologize to Graves and Mrs. Service?”

  Crowther took a seat on the opposite side of the fire. “Personally, I never compound an offense with apologies,” he said. Harriet laughed suddenly and glanced across at him. Some of the gravity had left his expression. She felt a weight shift from her shoulders and let her breath out slowly before speaking.

  “Very well. Did Rachel tell you she and I had disagreed?”

  “Not as such, but she sought me out to ask my advice about the love affairs of Mr. Graves and Verity Chase. I cannot imagine she would have done so unless you had already proved an unwilling audience.”

  “We managed to be at each other’s throats before she had much chance to tell me a great deal. What was the matter of it?”

  “Miss Chase wishes to plan her wedding to Graves, but knows he hates the fact that the food he eats—that we all eat—is paid for by the estate of the Earl of Sussex. He cannot make his own fortune while he is managing another, and is too proud to add a wife and family to the charge he makes on Lord Sussex’s fortunes. Miss Chase wants him to use her marriage portion to buy the music shop from the estate of the Earl of Sussex, and so provide them with an independent income. However, she fears he no longer wishes to marry her. Perhaps she is dazzled senseless by the enormous quantity of gilt in this house. I think Rachel assured her that he does, but wished to know if I thought it likely Graves would approve of the plan for the shop, or whether his pride would prevent him acquiescing.”

  Harriet found herself amused by the idea of Crowther receiving this information from her sister and wondered what his expression had been as he had listened. “And your reply?”

  “I said that in matters of the heart my concerns are more practical than metaphysical. If she wished to bring me Mr. Graves’s heart in a jar I could tell her if it were healthy or no, but further than that I had no idea and advised her to talk to Mrs. Service.”

  Harriet sighed. “Poor Rachel. We have not been of great assistance. I wonder why she did not go to Mrs. Service at once, having instructed me on my proper behavior.”

  Crowther put his fingers together and said lightly, “I imagine because she knew you and I would be having this conversation at some point during the evening and wished you to be informed of the plan for the music shop. Your sister is young, and a little overcautious of your reputation perhaps, but she is no fool, Mrs. Westerman. And my remark about Mr. Graves’s heart made her smile.”

  “I am hasty with her.”

  He did not reply but let the silence unfold between them till Harriet said: “I fear I learned very little from Lord Carmichael other than I do not like him, and his stepson is wholly in his power. He had nothing to say of Fitzraven that did not confirm what we knew of him previously. Tell me of your meeting with Bywater.”

  Crowther put his hand to his chin. “That gentleman is certainly guilty of something.”

  “Of love?”

  “As we have already said, I am no expert in such areas, but of something more, I believe. However, I do not think him a likely spy for the French. He claims he had no idea that Fitzraven was following him. My impression is he wishes public renown rather than private riches. That would make it unlikely for him to trade secrets for money, though he might for influence, but really, what could a composer with limited connections know that would be of interest to the French?” Harriet assumed the question was rhetorical so did not reply. “And, Mrs. Westerman, we have an appointment tomorrow morning.”

  “With Bywater?”

  “No, madam. With Mr. Palmer. There was a note delivered here this afternoon. We are invited to call on a Mrs. Wheeler in Conduit Street, where we shall meet an old friend. I assume that is Mr. Palmer.”

  “He is most circumspect.”

  “He most likely has his reasons. If his suspicions are correct, and Fitzraven’s having spent time in France this summer, when Mr. Harwood thought him only in Milan, suggest they might well be, then we are on dangerous ground. It is a high-stakes game. Men are hanged for murder. They are drawn and quartered for treachery.”

  Harriet was still digesting this comment when there was a rap at the door and Mrs. Martin stepped in.

  “Mr. Crowther, Mrs. Westerman. A gentleman is here and wishes to speak to you. A Mr. Winter Harwood from His Majesty’s Theatre.” She paused then held out a piece of paper to Harriet. “And here is the recipe for the oysters, ma’am.”

  It may have been he was only clearing his throat, but to Harriet it sounded suspiciously as if Crowther laughed.

  Jocasta, Sam and Boyo had made their way back into the heart of the city through the shadows and were all weary and slow by the time they reached Jocasta’s alleyway. There was a stirring in the dark under the pear tree as they approached and two boys emerged from the gloom and exchanged nods with Sam.

  He pointed at each of them. “This is Finn, Mrs. Bligh. And this is Clayton.”

  They touched their foreheads to her and shuffled their feet. Jocasta led them into her room, where Sam set about making the fire. The shorter of the two, Clayton, sat on his hands to warm them and said Fred had changed his coat in Salisbury Street after the burial, then gone to the Admiralty Office. He’d come out with two other men like him and got settled in at the alehouse in Crag’s Court.

  “He looked funny though.”

  “What do you mean, boy?” Jocasta said.

  “He was walking slow and heavy, and the others were sort of holding him up. He was wailing a bit, and the others were looking about them as if they were worried he’d be heard. He looked to me like he didn’t want to go anywhere with them, but they wouldn’t let him be. He was there a while then went back home on his ownsome. I thought . . .”

  “Tell on.”

  “I thought he was crying like, as he was walking along. Then I met up with Finn in Salisbury Street, and we thought we’d head back here.”

  Finn, the taller, skinnier one who had red hair, had been keeping an eye on Mrs. Mitchell.

  “She didn’t do much. Got to her coffee shop after the burying and stayed there till supper, then headed back to Salisbury Street. There was a man paid a visit—he was just leaving when Fred came back.”

  Jocasta sniffed. “Her
man?”

  “Couldn’t say, Mrs. Bligh,” the boy said, thrusting his hands in his pockets. “Tall fella. Dressed plain. That Fred was very respectful of him, bowing and scraping as they talked like he was the Emperor of China. Got the feeling the words between them weren’t kindly. Tall Man said something and Fred flinched and wiped his eyes and tried to stand a bit straighter. Then Clayton came and tapped me on the shoulder and by the time we turned back, Tall Man was gone and the door was shut.”

  “Fairly said.” Jocasta folded her arms. “Anything more?”

  “I got talking to one of her boys what help out in the shop.”

  “What did he say, Finn?” Sam asked, as he set the lighter stuff for the fire, and started to strike up Jocasta’s steel.

  “That some weeks ago the missus was looking grim, but last Tuesday the landlord was in and she put money in his hands like she was the Queen of Sheba tossing away stones. Oh, and that he likes Wednesday and Saturday best because he gets extra tips selling books to the rich livers in the coaches.”

  “Books and coaches?” Sam asked, then started to blow on the embers.

  “Mrs. Mitchell has the right to sell coffee and oranges and storybooks. She gets the words from the theater, then has them printed in Hedge Lane, the liberrrettos,” he trilled, enjoying the word. “She pays fifty pounds a year for it. Wednesday and Saturday are when they do the singing there, at His Majesty’s Opera House in Hay Market.”

  Mr. Winter Harwood was very poised.

  “You asked me to come here, Mr. Crowther, and I have. It was not convenient, but I came. Is it too much to hope you have found out who killed Fitzraven and that the matter is concluded?”

  Harriet found Mr. Harwood a most interesting study. Without appearing impolite he had taken a seat, declined all offers of refreshment and done so with such economy of movement and word, this speech sounded by comparison like an oration. Harriet thought if he were similarly thrifty with his resources at the Opera House, for all its extravagances, he was probably amassing a considerable fortune there. Though the question was addressed to Crowther, it was she who replied.