Anatomy of Murder caw-2

by Imogen Robertson

  “That certainly seems consistent with the bruising,” Crowther said. “If he were throttled, we are likely to find damage to the hyoid bone.”

  Harriet remained with her face in shadow. “Could a woman do that, Crowther?” she asked.

  “Mrs. Westerman, I am quite convinced that some women can do anything.” He paused, and added in a more measured way, “Many women would have the strength to kill a man in this manner. Certainly.”

  At last Crowther turned toward his knives, and looked inquiringly at his companion. She did not return his gaze at once, but stood with her shoulders tilted and her head on one side, gazing at the poor naked being in front of her. He looked so frail and waxen on the table in the spill of the lamp that she felt a sadness flow up from the cold ground under her feet.

  There were times when she hated the brutal honesty of flesh. The body was marked and bruised in places other than the face and neck; odd, red, angry patches that seemed to glow out against the general pallor of the skin.

  Harriet let her mind clear and her eyes rest on that strange red mark under his chin. It sparked some memory, some trace of thought in her, but the idea would not form itself into a notion she could put into words.

  “Shall I make the first cut, madam?”

  Since their first meeting, Harriet had only once seen Crowther perform a full autopsy, and that had been on the corpse of a cat. It was known to the members of the reading public, and now to the fellows of the Royal Society, that she had attended Crowther in his examinations of other unfortunates, but they did not perhaps realize how limited, in some ways, those examinations had been. The business of pulling open a corpse was a brutal art, slippery and foul-smelling. It required a scientist to become a butcher, and a gentleman to redden his cuffs with gore and bile.

  By way of answer she sat down on the bench a little removed into the shadows, crossed her hands in her lap and settled herself, to show she meant to remain where she was as Crowther went to work with his knives. He adjusted the lamp and lifted his scalpel, which caught a gleam.

  “Crowther? Did you examine your father’s body after his murder?”

  Crowther went still.

  “I did not, Mrs. Westerman. The baron had already been buried before I could return from London. And my brother was in custody. The local justice greeted me with a record of his confession. He later retracted it, of course. But I saw only fear of the noose in that action.”

  “Your brother was tried in the House of Lords.”

  “He was. The execution was public. I attended both.”

  Harriet looked at his profile. His words had been fluent, but he seemed frozen now in his place. She thought it was likely the man on the trestle was of an age of Crowther’s father when he was killed. Leaning forward, she placed her forehead in her palm.

  “I am sorry I asked you such a thing, Crowther. Whatever tact I had, I seem to have lost in these last months.”

  Silently acknowledging her words, and placing the sharpened steel on the dead flesh, Crowther made his first cut.

  Justice Pither had had an uncomfortable afternoon’s watch. Twice he stepped into his backyard and raised his fist at the door of the old stable to offer assistance or refreshment; and twice he lost his nerve and retreated without knocking to take up his position in his study again, rereading the familiar passages of his handbook for the duties and dues of a justice of the peace. Despite his vigilance, however, when the door to his study finally opened and Mrs. Westerman stepped into the room, he was surprised enough to drop his glasses, and thought himself for a moment in danger of stepping on them. But Mrs. Westerman did not come with enlightenment. She merely requested ink and paper and the use of one of his servants as message boy. Her note written and put into his servant’s hands, she turned to leave the room again.

  “Do you,” Mr. Pither inquired, leaning with one hand on the inconveniently low desk, and in a tone which he hoped both invited confidence and inspired trust, “require anything. . er. . further?”

  Harriet considered, her head on one side.

  “No. Thank you.” Then she was gone.

  Another half-hour or so passed, and Mr. Pither heard his street door opening and closing again before a rather young man was shown in by the servant who had taken the message. He was a good-looking sort of fellow, somewhat thin and tall, and his dress was elegant even if his movements seemed a little uncertain, and his cravat rather sloppily tied. In the few moments he was in Pither’s presence he was in danger of dropping his hat twice. Pither offered the gentleman a seat. The offer was declined.

  “I am Owen Graves,” he said. “Mr. Crowther and Mrs. Westerman sent for me. Where might I find them?”

  Mr. Pither recognized the name, of course. This young man was guardian to the great estates of the Earl of Sussex, and also of the young earl himself. He struggled for a moment to think of a phrase that would fix him in this important gentleman’s mind as a coming man of intelligence and wit, but failed, and could do no more than show his new guest out through the back door of the house and indicate the old stable. As Mr. Graves bowed and stepped forward, Mr. Pither retreated and began to wonder if there was food in the house sufficient to feed all these people.

  He did not have long to count up his stores, for within ten minutes of the arrival of this Mr. Graves, all three of his guests had presented themselves in his study once more. Mr. Crowther had something of a glint in his eye, Mr. Graves looked merely serious and Mrs. Westerman calm, though there was something in her movements as she entered the room that suggested rather more vigor in her person than there had been on her arrival. Mr. Pither thought her rather handsome and wondered how it would feel to walk through Hyde Park on a Sunday with her on his arm, telling her of the wrongs he had righted during his week and receiving her respectful praise.

  “Well, Crowther, do not keep poor Mr. Pither in suspense any longer,” she said.

  Crowther looked up at the justice from under his heavy lids and nodded. “Very well. Mr. Pither, the man presently in your outhouse was strangled, not drowned. Probably some time yesterday. He is indeed called Fitzraven-Nathaniel Fitzraven, in fact-and our friend Mr. Graves here informs us he had been a professional violin player. Of late years, the arthritis building in his hands had forced him to become more of an assistant to the management of His Majesty’s Theatre in Hay Market, also known as His Majesty’s Opera House.”

  “Really? A violinist? The Opera House? Oh, I see.” Mr. Pither was at a loss.

  “Also,” Harriet added with a smile, “after he was throttled, Mr. Fitzraven was left on his back for some hours before being thrown into the river.”

  Justice Pither’s jaw worked uncomfortably for a few moments. “But how can you possibly know such things?”

  Crowther settled back into his seat to explain, but was cut off by a wave from Mrs. Westerman.

  “No, sir, please allow me. You shall say everything in Latin and in detail that would stop a decent man from enjoying his dinner.” Mr. Crowther blinked but did not protest. Mrs. Westerman continued, counting her points on her fingertips and sounding for all the world as if she were rattling off an order to her grocer: “He has bruises to his throat, and the hyoid bone is broken, thus, strangulation. As to the movement of the body-when a person dies their blood does not freeze, but like water tries to find the lowest level it can and congeals there.”

  Mr. Pither looked a little nauseated, but nodded bravely. Harriet smiled at him encouragingly and went on, “Mr. Crowther has been instructing me in the matter this afternoon. I now pass on the knowledge to you, sir. Mr. Fitzraven has patches on his back that suggest he was lying flat for some hours before he was thrown in the river. Some blood also gathered in his feet, as the process was not complete when he went into the water. He was wearing a rather fine coat. The air trapped in it held him upright from his tether. As to his full name and profession, we noticed a mark on his neck I remember seeing on friends of Mr. Graves here, who are violinists by trade, then i
t was a simple matter to ask him to come here as he knows every fiddle player in London.” She gave him a bright smile and folded her hands again in her lap.

  After a moment’s pause, while Justice Pither attempted to absorb the information so cheerfully flung down before him, he asked hopefully, “And who killed him?”

  “That we cannot know,” Crowther said dryly. “Mr. Graves here can furnish you with his address.” The party began to stand. Justice Pither scrambled to his feet.

  “But please. . I. . Mr. Crowther, Mrs. Westerman. Do not desert me! Please tell me you intend to look further into this matter. My duties. . I cannot investigate this poor man’s death in any satisfactory way myself.” At that moment, in the street, and with a deplorable lack of respect for the solemnity of the moment, a rather harsh-voiced person started yelling that he had mackerel for sale. Harriet and Crowther were looking at each other. “Surely, you have a duty. .” the justice said pitiably. “Mr. Graves, please help me to persuade them.”

  Graves looked between the justice and Mrs. Westerman. “I believe that, in doing what they have already done, my friends have more than fulfilled their duty,” he said. “Beyond this point, their chances of success are no greater than yours.”

  Justice Pither looked distressed. “I beg you, sir, madam!” His shoulders slumped and he looked at the table in front of him, at his little leather volumes, and said more quietly, “But I have nothing to offer you. I have no influence, no connections to compare with those which you already enjoy in your own rights. I know most people in this city think me a fool for trying to see the laws enforced, the guilty punished and so on.” He sighed. “You are right, Mr. Graves.” He drew himself straight, trying to be brave. “Thank you, Mr. Crowther, Mrs. Westerman, for your valued assistance. I shall do my best-place the proper advertisements and so on. I am most grateful to you both for telling me so much about this unhappy wretch.”

  There was a long pause. Mr. Pither could hear Mrs. Westerman’s gloved fingers beating a tattoo on the cloth of her dress, and some part of him began to hope.

  “Oh dear,” said Harriet at last. “Now you have made us your allies in a way all the influence in the world could not. Do you not fear it to be so, Mr. Crowther?”

  “I do, Mrs. Westerman,” that gentleman replied.

  Pither almost shook with relief. Harriet offered him her hand and he snatched it up in both of his own, his total confidence in their abilities shining out from him.

  “Thank you.”

  Harriet patted his hand and released herself with a slight wince. “We shall regret it, I imagine. I hope you shall not, sir. We are at your service.” She glanced at the clock on Mr. Pither’s mantel. “Or at least we shall be so in the morning. The dinner hour approaches and Mr. Graves’s house keeps careful hours.”

  Graves took advantage of the carriage trip returning them to Berkeley Square to tell them what he could of Nathaniel Fitzraven, musician. It became clear at once that he had not liked the man, and as Graves seemed to like and value most people to a degree Harriet found frustrating, she had pushed him for his reasons and impressions. He had spoken haltingly at first, watching the damp, darkening streets pass by through the carriage window. He shivered.

  “He liked to pretend intimate knowledge of his betters. He played in the band of His Majesty’s Theatre for some years and the association with the singers and patrons there was a tonic to him. To hear him speak, you would have thought him the confidant of every music lover of note in the city. Then his talents began to desert him; his fingers stiffened to the point he could no longer perform what was required.”

  “The swelling of the joints was not extreme,” Crowther said, his eyebrows raised.

  Graves looked down at his own young hands for a moment, then hid them in his pockets. “It does not need to be extreme to lose a musician his livelihood. He managed to wheedle himself back into the employ of the Opera House, however. Perhaps the manager there, Mr. Harwood, pitied him. This year and last he was running errands for them, and acting as if he was Harwood’s right-hand man. He bought last season’s selections to be made up into songbooks.” Graves, among his other responsibilities, also managed a small music shop in Tichfield Street, a much less fashionable part of Town. He continued: “I did not like the way he treated the children. As soon as their true lineage and worth was acknowledged, he became ingratiating. My heart sank if they were keeping me company in the shop and he entered on some pretext or other. I am sure he told everyone he stood like an uncle to them.”

  Harriet smiled gently at him as she pulled her cloak more tightly round her throat. “Lord Sussex and Lady Susan know who their friends are, Graves.”

  The young man shrugged his shoulders. “Susan does, I think. But Jonathan is still very young. However, whatever my doubts about Fitzraven, Harwood placed great trust in him this summer. He sent Fitzraven to the continent to recruit singers for the current season. Fitzraven came back bristling with pride, and looking rather sleek. He had engaged Isabella Marin in Milan and, indeed, this new castrato of whom such praises are spoken-Manzerotti. They say he is the greatest singer to come to London since Gasparo Pacchierotti’s debut of seventy-seven. One of my customers heard him at a party in Devonshire House some days ago and was all but overcome.”

  Harriet and Crowther must have looked a little blank at the names. The noise of London was crashing in on them through the windows of the carriage as it bullied its way along Cockspur through horses, carts and bobbing sedan chairs in the gathering dark. The carriage wheels spat mud up the doors as they jostled between ruts, the light had bled out of the day and already the shadows were deepening and the colors folding in on themselves. A pieman, his tray almost empty, chucked the last of his wares to a group of dirty-looking boys who had been following him down the road. After a brief struggle the strongest of them emerged in victory and held his prize high above the heads of the others. He tore pieces of the misshapen pastry off and stuffed them into his mouth, while keeping the rest out of the reach of his mewling, begging band and their long skinny fingers. Hawkers and song sellers walked by them shouting out their produce and prices, occasionally running a casual, assessing eye over the carriage, which here at least moved scarcely faster than they did, and over its occupants. A girl, no more than fourteen but already pox-marked and old in her expression, peered in and whistled at Graves, then noticing Harriet winked at her, and with a swing of her hips was gone. Graves was too busy marveling at his companions’ expressions to notice her.

  “Really, Crowther, Mrs. Westerman,” he said, “you are educated people but your ignorance of music is astonishing.”

  Harriet looked very serious. “Forgive us, Graves! We are new to the capital, and I was in the East Indies in seventy-seven and Crowther was in-?”

  Crowther looked up from his fingernails. “Oh, I was in London. And I went to a concert or two, but my occupations were in general less polite.” And when Graves looked inquiringly at him, Crowther met his gaze and said very evenly, “I was cutting up dead people.”

  Graves cleared his throat and crossed his legs.

  “Then Graves, my dear boy, you must educate us.” Harriet smiled and folded her arms. “Who is this Manzerotti? And who is Isabella Marin?”

  Graves leaned forward with a sudden enthusiasm that reminded Harriet that, for all his cares and responsibilities, he was still not yet twenty-five.

  “Manzerotti is said to be the greatest soprano castrato living. He is much spoken of. It is a marvelous thing to have him in London! They say that with both him and Marin in the company, the serious opera or ‘opera seria’ could equal the success of Creso in seventy-seven, and there were sixteen performances that season.” He sat back again with the air of having delivered a startling revelation.

  Crowther exchanged a glance with Harriet, and lifted his eyebrows, murmuring, “Is that good?”

  Graves gave an exasperated sigh. “It is remarkable! An opera is judged a great success if it manages a dozen
performances. And Isabella Marin! Her name is pure gold on the continent, and it is her first appearance on the English stage. It is a sensation.”

  Harriet pulled absentmindedly on one of her red curls of hair, saying, “Are there no English singers who can hold a tune? Why did Harwood need to send Fitzraven to the continent to recruit? Are we not at war with most of our neighbors over there?”

  “Art knows no boundaries or borders,” Graves said a little stiffly, then, throwing his body back into the corner of the coach and smiling, “but it is partly fashion. We English love to see something new at the opera. I think bringing in singers from hundreds of miles away to serenade us makes us feel more important. What is nearby is necessarily unexceptional.”

  He looked up and to his right into the dark of the carriage. Harriet could tell he was imagining the sound of this Manzerotti’s voice in the private auditorium of his mind. Then, coming to himself and noticing the streets outside, he said, “We are nearly arrived. I hope you dine with us this evening, Mr. Crowther.”

  Mr. Crowther bowed and the carriage came to a halt.

  Mr. Crowther was not a regular guest at dinner in Berkeley Square; however he thought it might be politic not to return to his own rented house as yet. He had been late at work the previous night; indeed, dawn had already begun to cough at the windows when he ceased his examination of small lesions on the brain of a young man who had died of a seizure. It had been a fascinating study, but he was not entirely confident that he had tidied away all his samples before retiring at last to bed. If he had been remiss it was likely the maid would have been thrown into hysterics by the discovery of part of a brain in a jar and left her post. He had lost two maids in this way since coming to London, and his housekeeper, Hannah, though loyal, had limits to her patience. He hoped to avoid the punishment of a bad dinner by taking a seat at Graves’s table. However, although the food was excellent, the table was so crowded with good humor he feared his digestion might still suffer.