Anatomy of Murder caw-2

by Imogen Robertson

  “So she told you, madam. But the bonds of blood can prove very strong. A woman may be wronged grievously by a father or lover, then betray herself and all she holds dear to seek still the love of that man.”

  Harriet visibly stiffened. “A man might do the same.”

  Palmer gave her a slight nod. “Indeed. But I am speaking of Miss Marin. She is a very beautiful woman. Many men of rank and influence, in hopes of gaining her admiration, might tell her tidbits that the French would be very glad to hear. Those she could pass on to her father in hopes of the reward of his affection.”

  Crowther spoke before Harriet had any opportunity to launch into a lengthy defense of Miss Marin. “What of his sudden association with Lord Carmichael?”

  Mr. Palmer turned around and looked directly into Crowther’s icy eyes. “He was involved in the case of your brother and father, I believe?”

  Crowther’s throat went a little dry and he said simply, “Peripherally.”

  Palmer turned back to the street outside. “I shall not tell you to guard against prejudice. I have my suspicions of Carmichael and would be glad if you could tell me more of him and his connections. I am wondering if he offered accommodation to Manzerotti in order to tempt a number of noble lovers of song into his house. He has a hunting lodge close to the Kent coast and a great many people seem to work for him in some capacity or other. He moves in the political world, yet does not involve himself directly. He is rich indeed, but his habits are expensive. He would be a great asset to the French, and could be the conduit through which information flows to France.”

  Harriet frowned and sat back in her chair. “But he is rich enough to pay for whatever he wishes, and pay his stepson Longley’s debts. Why risk death to spy?”

  Mr. Palmer came and took the seat opposite her again.

  “There is a darkness in the souls of men, Mrs. Westerman. The stimulation of it, perhaps. I know he gambles and has fought duels over trifles. Who can say?”

  Crowther’s voice seemed unnaturally loud in his own head when he spoke. “He enjoys manipulating those whom he knows, or suspects, to be weaker characters than himself.”

  Harriet folded her arms. “That I can believe. I found him a deeply unpleasant character, and I fear for his stepson. He was being sent to Harwich,” she added quietly. “Might Carmichael risk sending Longley to France bearing intelligence?”

  “I fear for him also. I can arrange to have him pursued. Quietly,” Palmer replied with a deep sadness in his voice, then he watched Harriet with steady attention as she continued.

  “So let us say we believe Fitzraven was a spy, or to some degree involved in espionage. For what reason was he killed?”

  “I do not know,” Palmer said, “and I believe it is important that you find out if you can, madam. He may have thought to betray his conspirators. It may have sprung from other causes. We are putting our faith in you.”

  Harriet was looking down at the floor, deep in thought. She did not appear to revel in this statement of his trust. She stroked her brow as if trying to dislodge some irritation in her brain. “Dear Lord, treachery, bedroom gossip, men of such malignancy as Carmichael and Fitzraven. My husband fought clean battles for his country.”

  Mr. Palmer’s expression lost its softness and became fierce. “And some of them he won because of information that persons such as myself managed to procure for him and his fellow officers.” Crowther saw the note of rebellion in Harriet’s green eyes. Mr. Palmer saw it too perhaps, and possibly his memory of being at the sharp end of Harriet’s temper returned to him as he went on in a more conciliatory tone: “Life becomes more. . complex, the more closely we consider it. Would you not agree, Mr. Crowther?”

  “Undoubtedly.”

  “Wars, battles, competition for trade, struggles for liberty or control-everything is influence: networks of information, moments of confrontation or compromise. Yes, we like to believe in the grand victory nobly fought, but life delivers very little to us so tidily, no matter what our own abilities or the rightness of our cause. So, Mrs. Westerman, you must understand that such business is as much a part of war as brave officers and well-trained men. This matter with Fitzraven is sordid, but we may save the lives of our men by our actions. We are in danger of losing the colonies in America, and more important perhaps, our reputation as masters of the sea. This cannot be. Whatever we can do to prevent or lessen our losses will be bringing some happiness, saving our countrymen from treachery, defeat, poverty, shame.” He rubbed his eyes tiredly. “I have not heard from the agent who supplied Fitzraven’s name for some time. I can only hope she is well. She is a brave servant of her king.”

  It seemed to Crowther that with that last remark Palmer had won his point with Harriet, for after a moment she asked in more subdued tones: “Has much damage been done already, Mr. Palmer?”

  “Perhaps, and our enemies aim to do a great deal more. I wish I had some comfort to offer you. Fitzraven’s death is strange. It has drawn our attention and it may be the unraveling of whatever organization is in place before it has the chance to deal our Navy fatal blows across its back. Let us hope that is the case.”

  Mrs. Wheeler knocked at the door to tell them Mr. Palmer’s carriage was waiting, then spent half an hour in calm conversation with Harriet and Mr. Crowther on neutral subjects until they thought it safe to summon their own.

  3

  Jocasta had a long day outside the Admiralty Office watching for Fred, and had little profit on it. She marked the man appear at midday and have some talk with two others. They held their heads low. Then they went their separate ways and in twenty minutes Fred was back inside wiping crumbs from his mouth. The sun had got as high as it could in the sky and fell shamefacedly backward in the murk. It was then Sam tapped up beside her. The days of food and rest in a warm bed had been doing him some good, but as he appeared at her side he looked pale and shivering again.

  “What’s with you, lad?” Jocasta asked with a frown. Taking a grip on his chin, she tilted it up toward her. “Tell me.” She could feel the tremor in his bones.

  “Nothing. Just. I haven’t seen Finn or Clayton all day, and there’s stuff being said.”

  “What manner of stuff?”

  “A man stopped by me where I was watching and told me all laughing to get indoors because the bogeyman was about and carrying off boys like me and eating them. Told me to watch for lights in the dark.”

  She could feel that cold prickling up her neck again; she let his chin go but held his eyes. “Was he drunk?”

  Sam thrust his hands into the pockets of his trousers. “Stank of gin and smoke, made me think of my dad, but. .” He looked down, digging his shoe into the muck at his feet. “Could you not ask the cards on ’em, Mrs. Bligh?” And when Jocasta sighed and folded her arms: “I mean, there’s no proof needed there. Not like Milky Boy and the lady. I just want the knowing. Please, Mrs. Bligh?”

  “They don’t work neat as that, or I’d just ask them where Old Hopps has hidden his money and then go buy mysel’ a carriage, wouldn’t I?”

  He put his hand out and laid it on her arm and came up close, his face all pleading. “But do them for me, and if they say I worry overmuch and all is well, then I’ll be restful. Promise.”

  Jocasta gave a quick nod and pulled out the pack, then settled on the doorstep behind her. She handed the greasy cards over to the boy.

  “Shuffle them up and lay down three before me.” He did so. Jocasta watched for a second or two as the cards danced in front of her, then snatched the pack off him, put the laid cards back on top and shoved them back in her pocket.

  “What do they say, Mrs. Bligh?”

  “Nothing. Reckon they don’t work right in the open air. But if you’re going to fret at me all night then we’ll pay a visit to Clayton’s doss down and see for ourselves he’s all right. You know where he is, do you?”

  Sam got to his feet eagerly. “Yes, ma’am. In the rookeries behind Chandos Street.” He hesitated again.
“But don’t you want to wait and see what Fred’s up to?”

  Jocasta had already set off. “He’s bad today, he’ll be bad tomorrow and the day after too. Now awez, lad.”

  It was not until Harriet had entered the coach to travel to Lord Carmichael’s evening party that she had become nervous. She had dined in the company of foreign princes, but the top rank of London society was unknown country for her. The Earl of Sussex may have asked for her help in getting his cat’s cradle back from Mrs. Service that morning, but that would be of no help to her now.

  “Crowther,” she said, staring out at the passing streets, “why on earth have we come?”

  Crowther was a little surprised. “To observe Lord Carmichael I believe was our intention, was it not? And to ask again about his connection to Fitzraven.”

  She was silent.

  “I should not have asked you to talk to him alone, Mrs. Westerman. Mr. Palmer has suspicions of the man so I must meet him. I am happier to do so when surrounded by company. We were invited for this evening, madam, and it may be useful to Mr. Palmer to know with whom Lord Carmichael associates. We should not scorn such opportunities.”

  Harriet threw herself back in the carriage, threatening to undo all the good Rachel had managed with her hair, and continued to look out of the window rather miserably. Her hand went to the double strand of pearls around her neck, pulling and twisting at them. Crowther watched her for a moment.

  “Mrs. Westerman, are you nervous of the company?”

  Mrs. Westerman did not reply.

  “My dear woman, parties such as these are unutterably dull and the people who attend them often the same. Not a soul that you see here would not rather be in their own bed, or clubs, or amusements but they come because it is done and they follow like sheep. They may be gilded and bejeweled but they are sheep! Look of the conduct of this ridiculous war and you will see there are hardly enough competent men of rank to govern the country. We would be better off as a nation if we fed the whole pack of them to the mob. Do not be so cotton headed as to be intimidated by unearned wealth!”

  Harriet was touched and a little surprised to watch him become heated. It was as if Crowther had put on a new being with his evening dress.

  “Crowther! You are a revolutionary.”

  He glanced outside as the carriage jogged along the roadway. The streets in this part of Town were quiet tonight. Those who lived here moved by carriage or chair in the evenings or kept to their beds.

  “I will not have you think poorly of yourself in front of such braying puppets as these, or so low a creature as Carmichael,” he said. “There are dogs in St. Giles with better morals and more honor.”

  Jocasta set Sam down in the chophouse, making sure she had caught the proprietor’s eye so there would be no fuss about it, and marched fast as she might up St. Martin’s Lane till she came to the alleyway into her own yard.

  “All right, Mrs. Bligh?”

  Her wrinkled old landlord pulled his threadbare coat around him and looked up at her. He was perched on a stool in the entrance to his own place.

  “How do, Hopps? Anyone been asking for me today?”

  “Couple of your usual girlies turned up and peered through your window, looked mournful and headed off again. You give up working?”

  “Never you mind.”

  “But I have an inkling you are asking if anyone unusual came a-calling, ain’t you, lady?”

  Jocasta nodded.

  “Tall fella. Didn’t like him. He wanted to know if you’d been about and gave me two shillings to keep an eye out and tell him your movements, if any, when he returned in the morning. That more the thing you asking, dear?”

  “More like. And what will you say to him when he comes back?”

  “That I, nor no one else here, has seen any sight of you. If that’s your liking.”

  “Thank you, Hopps.”

  “Not a matter of thanking or not thanking, dearie. I didn’t like the man. Never could abide foreigners.”

  He spat on the ground and Jocasta returned to the chophouse, the back of her neck tickling and prickling so bad she thought the devil was teasing at it.

  It was certainly a good thing that Crowther had put some steel into Harriet’s spine. The level of conversation in the long drawing room of Lord Carmichael’s house dropped perceptibly when they were announced, and many of its occupants, gorgeous in silks and shining in the candlelight with more jewels than Harriet had seen on the necks of maharajahs, turned to stare at them both quite openly. A voice to Harriet’s right spoke deliberately clearly, each syllable sounding like a champagne glass being broken with a tiny ivory hammer.

  “I thought the eunuch was to be the curiosity of the evening. Lord Carmichael has outdone himself.”

  Harriet turned to find herself staring into the cool gray eyes of a handsome woman of her own age. Her hair was dressed very high and heavily powdered. A spray of diamonds over her right ear caught the glare of the chandeliers and danced it back every color of the rainbow. It was a jewel that could have bought Caveley twice over. Harriet nodded very slightly to her, and received a vicious little twist of a smile in return.

  “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.”