Anatomy of Murder

by Imogen Robertson

  “Mrs. Westerman! An absolute pleasure to make your acquaintance!” She looked around to see a gentleman of late middle age with a long chin and deeply hooded eyes come barreling toward her and stopping with a bow.

  “I am Sandwich, you know.” She made her curtsy and when she raised her head again, John Montagu, Fourth Earl of Sandwich and First Lord of the Admiralty, took her hand and placed it on his arm. He then announced to the room at large: “This lady’s husband is the Captain Westerman who took the Marquis de La Fayette in the spring, you know. A remarkable prize.” There was a scattering of applause. Then, turning back to her, “Now let us find somewhere more comfortable and have a proper conversation about things of significance, such as your husband’s improving health—and I wish to know your opinion on a number of matters I have on my desk at the Admiralty. Lady Sybil there,” he nodded toward the woman with the diamond spray, “has been driving me half-silly with her thoughts on the latest marvels at His Majesty’s and everyone in this room knows she can’t tell Handel from the wheezings of a hurdy-gurdy.” There was a little light laughter around them and Lady Sybil went rather red under her powder. “And you are Mr. Crowther, of course. We shan’t bore you with naval talk, sir, but you will find Sir William Fontaine in the card room. He has been telling us of your recent paper at the Royal Society and is eager to ask you more.”

  The gentlemen made their bows, and Harriet prepared to be carried off by Lord Sandwich.

  Off Bedford Street and late in the day. The stink of filth was choking as they turned into one of the nameless overbuilt yards. Jocasta could hear the grunting of pigs on the offal pile. Every few yards a brazier burned, and around it a few wretches gathered. A man wearing hardly rags enough to keep him decent was singing at one desperate-looking fire. One arm was slung over the shoulders of a dirty-faced girl, in the other he held a bottle. They were both glassy-eyed and laughing the way the damned laugh. Jocasta thought of the days before the cards came when she paid tuppence a night for a share of a bed in a room not far from here. She thought she’d never get the hell of it out of her. Strange what you can become accustomed to, what you can forget.

  There was no use in trying to mind where they walked. The foulness was everywhere, but she kept her eyes down to check that she wasn’t going to break her neck falling down one of the open cellars. Bending over, she picked up Boyo and thrust him into Sam’s arms. He took the dog and then pointed to the house just opposite them.

  “That where Clayton stays, is it?” she asked, and he nodded. “Up or down?” He gestured up.

  Jocasta stepped into the doorway. The door itself was long gone. There’d be no banister either and her bones were cold and stiff from the day. There was another, leering shout of laughter from the singing drunk and his girl, and Sam darted to Jocasta’s side. They started to climb through the dark and stink, Jocasta feeling the wall with her palm to watch they didn’t fall into the night below.

  4

  Lord Sandwich did wish to have some conversation with Harriet, but first he wanted to walk her on his arm through the various rooms that were full of company. She was grateful, but it was a great relief to be led, finally, to an empty settee on one side of the drawing room to talk about naval matters for a little while. However, as they sat Sandwich said rather abruptly: “You are looking into the death of this little man from the opera, are you not?”

  Harriet was surprised, and searched his face for any indication that he might know of their dealings with Palmer. She saw none. “Indeed. That is how we come to be here this evening, for he was acquainted with both Lord Carmichael and Manzerotti. Did you know him, my lord?”

  Lord Sandwich scratched his jaw. “Had no idea of the fellow’s name till Carmichael told me of his death and said that you were coming here. He meant to embarrass you, you know, my dear. I have no doubt Lady Sybil was in collusion with him for that bit of unpleasantness. However, I shan’t have the wife of one of my best men treated that way, no matter what strangeness she gets involved with.”

  “Thank you, sir,” Harriet said, and thought of Rachel.

  “But I remembered him when he was described to me. I love the opera, you know, madam. Not the fuss, just the music—though no one comes close to Old Handel, of course. Yes, I’d seen that fellow sneaking about. I saw him a week or two after my poor Martha was shot outside Covent Garden. Man was practically drooling with excitement. If you find the fellow who killed him, he must be hanged—but I’d be happy to shake his hand first. Sure his death has something to do with His Majesty’s?”

  Harriet looked down at the small glass of champagne a servant had placed between her fingers.

  “I’m afraid so, sir.”

  The earl harrumphed into his cravat. “Very good. No. Sorry, I know no more of him than that. Well, murder and whatever scandal you discover aside, Harwood has a spectacular success on his hands. Mademoiselle Marin and Manzerotti are both here to sing this evening, you know—the only reason a nasty little man like Carmichael has such a crowd in here. Beautiful girl, that Marin. Odd sort of mood this evening, though.”

  “Indeed? I had hoped to see her in good spirits tonight.”

  Sandwich pulled his waistcoat straight. “They are funny sorts, these singers. Particularly the women. She has been very prettily behaved toward me since she came to London, but tonight she can hardly look at anyone. Say whatever you like to her, it is clear her attention is elsewhere.”

  “And what do you think of Manzerotti, my lord?”

  “Marvel of a voice. Beyond that I have nothing to say on him. But tell me, my dear, how is the captain? Such a tragedy. He is sorely missed in our current trials.”

  As Harriet looked at the bubbles glinting in her drink, the pink and white noise of conversation seemed to rattle and echo in the glass. “He is not well at all still, sir. Dr. Trevelyan doubts he will ever be the man he was.” When Sandwich patted her knee like an uncle unused to dealing with small children in distress, Harriet straightened her back and looked him in the eye with a determined smile. “But I live in hopes of continued improvement. Shreds of his memory are beginning to return. He is recovering something of himself, I hope, though his mind runs a great deal on spies and espionage at the current time.”

  “Seeking enemies everywhere? Such things occur, when people’s wits are disordered. When my wife was in her decline she thought the coal scuttle was a devil from hell come to claim her, and myself a monster come to torment her.”

  Again Harriet was forced to remember that there were people other than herself who had suffered, and did it with a better grace than she often managed. Lord Sandwich had seen his wife descend into madness, and his lover Martha shot by a jealous rival, and had still done his duty as First Lord well enough to be regarded by those active in the service as “a good sort.” This was the highest praise possible for any man not currently under sail.

  At that moment, Lord Sandwich looked up over her shoulder, and Harriet turned to find that Isabella Marin and Manzerotti were close behind her. Isabella did not look entirely well, and Harriet had to fight the temptation to place a hand on her forehead to check for fever.

  “Dear Mrs. Westerman!” the young woman said. “Manzerotti tells me we are to sing very soon, then I think I must . . . but I wished to say thank you. I have seen him.” Harriet made to stand. “No, do not disturb yourself, please. But thank you.” Isabella turned on her heel and swept out toward the farther room again in a blossoming of pink silk. Harriet felt Manzerotti’s black eyes travel over her for a moment, as dark and drawing as ever before he bowed to them both and followed her.

  “See? Told you. Funny bird,” said Sandwich, with a shake of his large head. “But no matter. We should go and hear the music, madam.”

  Harriet put an arm on his sleeve. “Will you do me a kindness, sir? I have not seen Lord Carmichael yet. Whatever his motives, I should thank him for his hospitality. Do you know where he might be?”

  The twist of her mouth drew a throaty chuck
le from the peer.

  “Nothing easier. He is on the other side of this room talking to Mr. Crowther.”

  Harriet glanced up to see the gentlemen exchange bows and separate. Catching her eye, Carmichael bowed, Harriet nodded in response and the gentleman moved on. He was dressed again with great elegance. Harriet took in the tableau around him, the gilded furnishings, the marble fireplace behind him—even the smart goblet held between his fingertips. It shall all outlast him, she thought. His lips were rather red and he was looking after Crowther with a slight sneer. She could see no sign of his stepson in the crowd. Harriet continued to watch him as she addressed Lord Sandwich.

  “Why do you come here, sir, when you do not like your host?”

  Sandwich gestured toward the company. “There is as much government business done at events such as these as in Parliament, dear lady. The Season is just beginning, and there are, as yet, not too many of these parties. There were people I had to meet tonight. Some of my most successful alliances have been forged over champagne. And here the women may guide us about and whisper in our ear. We think we are statesmen. They remind us we are politicians.”

  Harriet began to feel guilty. “Then I have been keeping you from your duty, my lord. And you may have to treat for peace with Lady Sybil.”

  He patted her knee. “No matter, my dear, this do will rattle on a while yet. And Lady Sybil and I are old enemies and get great satisfaction from our battles. Now—the music. And give my regards to your husband, if he might have any use for them.”

  Harriet thought of James in his room in Highgate, then of him in shirtsleeves in his cabin, looking up at her with a quick smile from his charts and logs. She had had some hopes that when the war with America was concluded he might be persuaded to take up the life of a country gentleman. They had been much separated since Stephen’s birth and she had wished to know her husband better—another ambition that put her apart from much of the company in the room. She thought of the open fields surrounding Caveley, the orchard there. She had been told the harvest had been splendid this year. Usually, she and Stephen would walk among the pickers and help serve their midday meal in the yard. This year, she had been in London.

  Harriet recalled Justice Pither’s low outhouse and Fitzraven’s body lying under the oil lamp. The taste of champagne began to turn a little bitter in her mouth. She remembered seeing the girl selling milk from the pail in Berkeley Square and wondered where she was laying her head tonight; thought of the abandoned children who did not find their way to the Foundling Hospital. A man to her right, his chin receding into the lace of his cravat, gave a braying laugh. She turned to watch him wave his soft white hands in the air. His audience, two young women, their high color painted on and in nooses of emeralds and silks, laughed back up to him, fluttering their eyes and flirting with their fans. When she noticed her hands again she realized her fingers were white around the glass. That little thrill of sitting in the Royal Box at His Majesty’s, the pleasure of taking Sandwich’s arm that she had felt, now disgusted her. “Vanitas vanitatum, omnis vanitas,” she murmured, then stood and allowed the earl to guide her forward.

  Jocasta reached the top of the stairs and paused a moment to get her breath back. Boyo whined and a voice shouted out from behind the closed door, “Who’s there? One of you vermin brings a dog in here, I’ll kill it and eat it in front of you.”

  The door was pulled open so hard it rattled against the wall behind, and Jocasta could have sworn she felt the whole house shake. A woman peered out, sniffing the air of the corridor as if there was blood in it. She was a vast mound of a female, a tower and ball of flesh squeezed into the shape of a woman with stays and skirt. Her skin was slick and shiny with grease and her thin and scrappy hair was glued down to it in black wisps; her fingers clutching at the doorframe while she peered around at them on the landing were fat as sausages, the skin pulled tight over them as if they were about to burst.

  Jocasta looked straight into her half-swallowed eyes and said, “You touch my dog, missus, and I’ll curse you with boils so mean so you can’t sit for a month. Don’t think I won’t or can’t—I can and I will.”

  “What do you want?” The woman turned back into the room as she said it, swaying her huge body from side to side as she went, but left the door open. Jocasta took that as invitation enough and walked in. The garret was larger than she had expected, but very dark. There was a window or two, but the glass was long gone and the gaps stuffed with rags or covered with paper. A stove was going in the middle of the room, a vast armchair beside it, black where it had been sat on, and sunk into, and four or five boys slinking into the shadows where the incline of the roof hit the floor. The stench was as bad here as in the hall, and all the worse for the heat in the room. As Jocasta felt the boys watching her from the shadows, the fat lady went up to the pot and sniffed it.

  “News of Clayton,” Jocasta said, trying to see farther into the shadows.

  “What—he stolen from you?”

  “No.”

  She didn’t seem to care much, picked up a spoon to stir whatever was stewing and licked her lips. “Not that it’s my business if he did. Anyway, I ain’t got no news of him. He ain’t here now. Wasn’t here last night.”

  “Has that happened before?”

  “Do I look as if I had any share in the whelping of him? It’s no matter to me who comes and goes. Though he did always seem to be hanging about. That one!” She turned and spat at her feet. “He’d dare to come home with the hunger on him and not so much as a handkerchief.”

  Jocasta stood still a moment. Her head was starting to ache with the smell and the heat. She had begun to turn to go when a voice spoke up from the dark.

  “He’s always here. Been here every night for a year. But he ain’t coming back.”

  Jocasta couldn’t see the face of the boy who had spoken. He was a shadow among shadows.

  “Why do you say that?” she asked.

  Another voice, softer and with a foreign lilt to it, sounded up from the other side of the garret. “Tonton Macoute took him, lady.”

  Despite the heat, a new chill began to grow and turn in Jocasta’s belly.

  “What did you say?” she demanded.

  The same soft voice spoke again; it lapped at her ears like the slap of water in a clean brook. “He’s a giant and speaks so sweet and moves like a cat, but his knapsack is full of little bones. He’s a devil-man. I never saw him before last night, just heard tell of him and smelled him in the shadows, but I saw him leading Clayton off as I came home.” As he spoke the little boy crept forward into the room. His face was dusky brown like sugar, and he looked up at her with large brown eyes and blinked. “Tonton Macoute took him.”

  The fat lady kept stirring the pot, her face expressionless.

  Another boy piped up, “He takes boys that stay out too late, and girls too if he can find them for the crack of their bones. Everyone knows that. Where else do you think the children go, lady?”

  Sam had inched into the room. “Anyone seen Finn today?” he said, his voice high and full of tears.

  The boys shook their heads without speaking and began to shuffle back again into the shadows. Then the dusky-faced child spoke again from the depths under the eaves.

  “Tonton Macoute.”

  Jocasta turned and walked out, pushing Sam in front of her. The pot on the stove bubbled and belched a little and the fat lady kept stirring, her face shining in the steam.

  5

  Harriet found Crowther at the very edge of the crowd preparing to enjoy Manzerotti and Isabella’s performance. He watched her as she approached. Even at first glance it was clear she was not of a type with the other women in the room. It was not simply the lack of diamonds around her neck, or the relatively casual arrangement of her hair and dress—Crowther had seen some concoctions on the heads of other ladies there that must present some danger to their spines—but there was something in the air around her that seemed a little foreign. The men and w
omen in the room knew it. Some were fascinated by it, perhaps, but most it repelled. Her life at sea, her adventures at his side had perhaps acted like some alchemical fire, and turned her into some other substance than the usual flesh of man and woman. Whatever process had occurred—was occurring—it might well, he supposed, lead to estrangement from her sister, even from her own children in time. He believed, however, that even if she had known when her husband bought Caveley how events might make the raw stuff of her develop, she would have walked the same path with her bright green eyes open.

  As Isabella began to sing, he turned his attention to himself. Was it his own otherness, his own separation from the body of men who made up his country, that had perhaps brought them together? Crowther had for many years feared and distrusted being bound to any other being in any way; he had cut those connections with his scalpel, and in all that time successfully defended his isolation even from his own sister, yet he had to confess there was a bond here, something in the complementary way their intellects functioned, though she frustrated or exhausted him at times with her impatience, her leaps of logic, her teasing. However, the more she distanced herself from the norms of the world, from her family and more quotidian commitments, the stronger the bond between them grew. He had thought her arguments with Rachel merely an annoyance, but now, for a moment as he thought of them he felt a touch of selfish pleasure. He looked down at the cane he held in front of him, the fat silver bundle of foliage under his thin fingers, and expected to feel ashamed. He did not.

  “Tell me you have forced Carmichael into an admission of murder and espionage and we may leave this place,” Harriet whispered as she reached his side. “The color scheme of gold and pink in this room is making me feel as if I had swallowed my own weight in sugar and rose water.”