Anatomy of Murder

by Imogen Robertson

Harriet choked slightly and put her hand over her mouth.

  “Mrs. Westerman, we must make use of these pictures.”

  7

  Jocasta liked the look of Proctor as soon as she laid eyes on him. He was taking shelter from the weather in a lean-to close to the Stairs, smoking his pipe with concentration and knocking the ashes out on his stool from time to time as they approached. He saw them coming and kept them under steady observation, then, having heard all they were ready to say, called out to a much younger man who was still jostling for trade across the river farther down the Stairs.

  He asked them to repeat what they had just said in the younger man’s hearing. They did so. Then he stroked at his massive beard a while, ending by giving it a good hard tug as if his hand was trying to pull his mouth open and get the words out by main force.

  “Man I’d want to see in your shoes is an old captain of mine. Not that he’s old himself, and he’s in London now, which few of the good ones are, what with the Frenchies and the Americans getting all roused.”

  He went quiet again. Jocasta was content to wait him out, but Molloy was getting pulled out of shape with the stopping and retelling.

  “Why don’t you name him then?” he said, with a narrowing of his eyes.

  Proctor knocked out his ash again. “Poor bloke got hit on the head, and he’s gone kind of simple now, it’s said. So I hesitate to trouble him with you.” He cast an eye toward the younger man at his side. “Jackson, I called you here to answer a question, and the question you must answer is this: what do you reckon to handing out his wife’s name? She’s a smart woman and her husband was known and liked enough, so she’ll know a face or two at the Admiralty.”

  Jackson lifted his hand to stroke where someday his own beard might grow. “Pither had her in to look at the body, didn’t he? And she didn’t look a fool to me. Her, or that bloke she had with her.”

  “What body?” said Molloy with quick interest.

  “We found a man.” Proctor pointed into the middle of the river with his pipe. “He was drowned but tethered. Heard him named as Fitzraven, someone from His Majesty’s, is the talk.”

  “And this lady came to look at the body? Nice entertainment,” Jocasta said.

  “Not sure as it was for a pleasure. She seemed to have some concerns with the business.”

  Jocasta folded her arms across her chest. “The opera house? Seems to me this is the lady we need to have words with.”

  Proctor and Jackson looked at each other for a long moment, till Proctor turned back toward them and, like a barreled mirror of Jocasta, crossed his arms as well.

  “I can’t tell you where she stays at,” Proctor said, “but her name is Westerman, and the fella she had with her was called Crowther. That help you?”

  Molloy looked a little confused and wondering for a second, then began to laugh. He let out a “Ha!” Then another one. Proctor frowned deeply, and Jackson crossed his arms as well, looking dark.

  “I do not take it kindly, sir,” Proctor said in a low rumble, “that you see that name as an occasion for mirth.”

  Molloy wiped his eyes and held up his hands as if to protest. “No lack of respect, Mr. Proctor. None at all.” Then he straightened up, slapping his hand on his thigh. “Never met her, but know her. Know Mr. Crowther too! Never met him neither, but I know him. Know where her friends are!” He turned around to Mrs. Bligh, his grin showing off his three remaining teeth like tombstones set in front of a cave. “What you say to that, Mrs. Bligh?” He shut his mouth and his laughter dropped away like a lock emptying. “What’s up, lady? Seeing ghosts again?”

  Jocasta’s mouth was dry as slate in summer. “That’s it. That’s the name.”

  “What name?”

  “The sailor they had their eye on to do harm. Westerman.”

  Molloy grew serious. “It all bundles up together now, don’t it? When you said a sailor was in trouble I thought you meant some bow-legged fool who had staggered in the wrong direction searching out his grog. This is a matter of a different stripe.” He rubbed his nose. “For one thing, they are rich and inclined to be grateful. We need to find our way to Tichfield Street, and smartly so.”

  Proctor had stood; his face was red and his beard seemed to stand out from his chin.

  “What can be done?”

  “Clode! Lord, as I live, Daniel Clode! What—has Sussex run dry of lawyerly business for you?”

  Graves had burst out of the back of the shop with long strides as soon as he heard his friend’s voice inquire for him, and now destroyed the space between them in a moment, throwing his arms around Daniel’s shoulders and slapping him so hard on the back, it would have wounded a lesser man.

  “Graves! I thought I’d find you here. Let me go, man, I’m stinking with the road. I’m just this moment out of the stagecoach and seeing the hour, thought it better to call here rather than at Berkeley Square.”

  Graves stood back and looked at his friend as if he were a miracle walking. Clode was a remarkably handsome man with large brown eyes and a face that seemed sculpted more than grown. If he knew what advantages nature had given him in this way, he never showed any sign of it though. Graves had never seen him respond to any of the soft feminine looks cast openly upon him, unless they came from the eyes of Miss Rachel Trench. A look from her was worth the compliments and favors of all other women, it seemed.

  “But why are you here? Why no notice of your coming? Is there some problem at Thornleigh Hall?”

  Clode looked a little shy. “No, everything is in order in Sussex, and the rebuilding progresses. I was summoned here by Miss Trench and by young Lady Susan. They seemed to believe you might wish to negotiate the purchase of this shop from Lord Sussex’s estate. And I am here to see you do not rob yourself or your future father-in-law too far for the children’s sake.”

  Graves looked sorry for a moment, then laughed. “Lord, I am plotted against on every side. Everyone insists I should be happy. But I am very glad to see you, coconspirator that you are.”

  “Miss Trench said something in her note about her sister and a murder?”

  Graves shrugged and turned to a pile of scores on the counter. They were the latest edition of the “Yellow Rose Duet.” On the title page of each, the name Bywater had been crossed out by hand, and replaced with Composition of a certain Gentleman.

  Giving up on ever getting the corners square, Graves spoke over his shoulder. “Yes, Mrs. Westerman and Crowther surround us with bodies and horrors again. I can see why Miss Trench might have some need of your support, as well as wishing to see Miss Chase and I properly bound up and established. I do not see what drives them . . . There must be something more to the case, as I cannot think with the captain so ill, Mrs. Westerman would involve herself in such a business for mere amusement.”

  Clode smiled, showing an almost unnatural number of good teeth. “Be comforted, Graves. Mrs. Westerman would not do such things without an excellent reason.”

  Graves turned back to him and folded his arms. “You are too trusting a person to be a solicitor, Clode. I fear for the children’s fortunes in your hands. But perhaps you are right. You will be a breeze of good sense and clean air among us.”

  Clode made a sharp bow, clicking the heels of his boots together as he did, then said more gently, “But what of the captain, Owen? Has he improved?”

  Graves sighed and wiped his hand across his brow. “The improvement is slight, but steady. I understand from Stephen that he was both calm and affectionate in his manner this morning, if still rather erratic or childlike in his speech.”

  His friend stepped forward and put a hand on Graves’s elbow. “Then I’d say the improvement was considerable.”

  Graves looked into his friend’s open face above him, saying, “Was it very bad when he first came home, Daniel?”

  Clode nodded and turned away a little before replying. “Past endurance. He was vicious, hardly rational, horribly demanding and dangerous when thwarted. Mrs. Westerman
and Miss Trench had so longed for him to return, but when he did it was dreadful. Lord, Owen! If Crowther had not found Trevelyan, it might have become necessary to intervene to keep the children and ladies safe. Did you know their footman and groom at Caveley had twice to forcibly lock their master in his chamber to save Mrs. Westerman’s neck? These are men who had served with him, who had entrusted their lives to him, now forced to confine him in his own home. Equally I saw him at moments when he was no more than a little strange, but still friendly, affectionate to his children. Stephen, however, I think he must have struck at some point. No boy should flinch in that way when his father approaches. No mother should look so fearful when her son and husband come together.”

  Graves was quiet a long while. “I had no idea it had been so serious.”

  “Yes,” Clode said. “And of course, if during any of his more apparently lucid moments he had sold the estate for less than you keep in your pocketbook, it would have been very hard to retrieve it. There—you see? I do speak like a lawyer from time to time.”

  “Was that likely?”

  Clode nodded. “One afternoon he attempted it. He tried to sell the estate, his wife and his children for enough money to buy a horse and cover his expenses to regain Plymouth and the Splendor. He even had some of the necessary documents about him. It seems he had sense enough to gather them up when his servants and family refused to have his horse saddled and concealed the cash box.”

  “What happened?”

  “He made the offer to Michaels at the Bear and Crown who is a better man than most, and smarter.”

  “Yes, I remember him. He refused the offer, I assume?”

  “No. I would have done, and I’d have been a fool to do so. Michaels knew that the next man the captain had the ear of might not be so scrupulous. He gave Westerman money and a horse, took the papers and shook hands with him, then sent word straight back to Caveley. Mrs. Westerman’s servants restored her husband to her the following day. He did not resist. Indeed David, the coachman, was convinced he had already forgot his purpose and was merely happy to see faces with which he was familiar. Michaels said he had been desperate when he had seen him to warn the crew of the Splendor that they had a spy on board and England was teeming with more of the same.”

  Graves shook his head. “Good God. To have the person you love best redelivered to you, but in such a changed manner. I had no idea . . .”

  Clode clapped him on the shoulder. “Enough! This is too serious a welcome. Come—smuggle me into your home so I may make myself respectable and greet the ladies of your household looking like a gentleman.”

  Mr. Tompkins was delighted to see Harriet and Crowther, and spent the time it took to walk from Mrs. Girdle’s to Gladys’s house telling them so, when he was not remarking on the terror of an audience with Gladys’s mother, Mrs. Spitter. The lady was a tyrant, according to his report: fierce in her opinions, final in her judgments and occasionally crushing in their delivery.

  “She loves Gladys, though,” Tompkins admitted. “She’d kill anyone who ever troubled that girl. Funny thing that she is.” Bearing this in mind, they sent up their cards and were swiftly shown into a pleasant parlor on the first floor. The room had generous windows overlooking the main street and by the fire was a low circular table with neat striped settees on either side. The whole gave the impression of modest prosperity, sensibly enjoyed.

  Two ladies rose to greet them. Mrs. Spitter was a woman of generous proportions with a firm jaw and shoulders that would have made her a grenadier if she had been born a man. The lines of her dress were certainly severe, bodice and skirt striped purple and black, but what made her appearance a little eccentric was the quantity of jet with which her person was adorned. Three great ropes of glimmering stones hung around her neck, her fingers were hidden to the knuckles with black lozenges, her wrists bristled with beads, bangles and bracelets all pitch polished. They gave her a sort of dark glow. Harriet was sure that in many of the less frequented places she had visited on the globe, Mrs. Spitter would, on first sight, have been acknowledged as some goddess of revenge or queen of the underworld, and Harriet for one would not have thought the natives unwise in their choice.

  Next to her stooped a girl whom Harriet guessed to be twenty-five at the most. She was all milk to Mrs. Spitter’s tar. Her face was not unpleasant, but rather blank, and her mouth never seemed quite shut, while her eyes looked and blinked at the company with an air of mildly curious surprise. She was so pale her complexion seemed tinged blue, and her hair was blond but very thin and weak. Her gaze picked out Mr. Tompkins and she gave him such an openhearted smile of welcome that Harriet found herself oddly touched.

  It seemed Mr. Tompkins was a little at a loss as to who to introduce to whom, so simply opened his mouth once or twice and shut it again. Mrs. Spitter started to raise her eyebrows, which Harriet guessed to be an unhappy sign, so she took a step forward toward the lady with her hand held out. Something about this matron suggested to her it would be best to state her business with the minimum of flummery.

  “Good afternoon, Mrs. Spitter. Thank you for receiving us. We would like very much to talk to Gladys about her angel.”

  Mrs. Spitter’s eyebrows descended and she smiled. Harriet thought of a dragon folding its wings.

  “You are Mrs. Westerman, and that man next to whom Mr. Tompkins is bobbing about like a cork is Mr. Crowther, I suppose.”

  “Quite so.”

  Mrs. Spitter looked Harriet up and down with great care, then took her hand and shook it firmly. She indicated the unoccupied sofa and, as her visitors seated themselves, said, “You could wear jet with your coloring, Mrs. Westerman. Gladys, of course, could not. But I have seen redheads carry it off to great effect.”

  Harriet sensed that this remark was a sign of approval and gave her thanks, and promise to consider it with great seriousness.

  “Mr. Tompkins,” said Mrs. Spitter in a tone that suggested he had not been recommended to wear jet, “tells us you have been looking into the business in that house out back.”

  “We have. And we have some pictures to show Gladys, if she is willing to see them. We wish to know if we have caught a likeness of her angel,” Harriet replied, and looked at Crowther.

  He produced the sheets Susan had given him from his pocket and passed them to Harriet without comment, sensing that this conversation was to take place exclusively between the women. Harriet passed them to Mrs. Spitter. The lady turned to her daughter.

  “Gladys dear, attend to me.” Gladys’s attention seemed to wander a second then with a slight wobble she turned her face toward her mother and blinked at her. Mrs. Spitter patted the girl’s knee. “Now I wish you to look at these pictures and tell me if you know the people here.”

  She held the papers in front of Gladys, showing her each one in turn. Gladys appeared to be delighted to look at pictures, and examined them with interest but no apparent sign of recognition in her expression. Mrs. Spitter lowered the pages and asked, “Do you know any of these people here? I mean, have you seen any of them before? Think now, child. Answer as best you can for your mama.”

  Gladys picked through the papers in her mother’s hands and pulled one out with great care, her tongue caught between her teeth as she did so.

  “This one?” her mother asked. She was answered with a swift nod. Harriet tried to decide who was most likely to be on the page as it turned. Despite Manzerotti’s tune, she was so convinced the picture would be that of Lord Carmichael that when Mrs. Spitter turned the paper and she saw the familiar picture of Bywater, she was more disappointed than she thought she had capacity for. After a moment she looked at Gladys.

  “Gladys, may I ask you a question?”

  The young woman bobbed her head happily. Perhaps more important, Harriet caught Mrs. Spitter’s almost imperceptible nod from the corner of her eye. “Thank you. Now can you tell me when you saw this gentleman? Was it the same day that the angel took Mr. Fitzraven away?”

&nbs
p; Gladys bobbed her head again and then said in a perfectly fluent voice, but rather high-pitched and rushed, “It was a walk day. When I have seen both of the cats from Mrs. Pewter’s on the roof, but not together, and three birds have sat on each of the chimney pots of Mrs. Girdle’s house, that means God wishes me to walk down to the corner and back three times and pay very close attention to everything I see. Sometimes He tells me to go in the morning. Sometimes I have to wait until afternoon. God made me wait that day till it was afternoon. Five minutes past three o’clock by the big clock in the upper parlor which was my nursery but is still my room where I listen to God, and He instructs me.”

  Crowther was looking with fascination at the young woman. Mrs. Spitter was perhaps used to seeing her daughter’s eccentricities mocked. While Gladys spoke she was looking very hard at Crowther—indeed, such was the force of her gaze that the jet about her throat seemed to quiver. When her daughter paused she addressed him very fiercely.

  “Mr. Crowther, perhaps you find my daughter’s communications with the deity amusing?”

  Crowther shifted his attention to the mother, looked at her for a long moment, and blinked.

  “I rarely find anything amusing, Mrs. Spitter. I am not a religious man, but I am convinced we are all unique. If the deity wishes to communicate with us, I see no reason to suspect He would not communicate with us all in unique ways.”

  Mrs. Spitter stared a moment longer while she considered this comment, then her face and form relaxed a little and she went so far as to bestow on Mr. Crowther a faint smile. She motioned for her daughter to continue. The girl did so, plucking at the folds of her dress a little with small unconscious, regular movements.

  “As I was coming back the second time from the corner, two hack carriages and a wagon passed me by and after the wagon, that gentleman crossed over the road and I saw his face for he was looking out for further passing vehicles and he walked up ahead of me and turned to the left at the top of the road just as the butcher’s boy was coming down toward the house. I saw twenty-three horses in total without turning my head, fourteen coming toward me and nine going away, so more coming than going—so that meant God was pleased with me and I had understood His meaning, and on entering the house I might sit at the window with the picture book and turn a page every time a bird landed on Mrs. Pewter’s chimney pot until I could count fourteen candles in the windows then I might go to bed. And I did that well too, even though I had to wait a long time after my supper was taken away because I saw His angel come and take His servant away—and that is a very special gift from God.”