Anatomy of Murder caw-2

by Imogen Robertson

  After a few moments Sam spoke in a whisper: “Mrs. Bligh. It weren’t your fault that the devil-man took ’em.”

  Jocasta felt her belly clench. She thought of the two young boys sitting in front of her fire, eating meal and milk.

  “It was, lad. It was. They’re lost over a day’s work I paid them a penny for. I was stupid. And I am now for not driving you off. Cards sometimes see a long way, sometimes close. I haven’t got any promises that you’ll be safe with me.”

  The little boy waited till she looked up at him again. When she did he was standing straight as a soldier, and his fists were closed and tight. “Don’t need the cards to tell me that, Mrs. Bligh. Or you. I know it for myself.”

  She smiled and roughed up the hair on his head. “Do you now? Well, we ain’t going home tonight, but I know a place. Then tomorrow we will see where we are at.”

  Crowther was right. There was a study just adjacent to the room where Isabella and Manzerotti were performing. Crowther began to look through the papers on the desk.

  “Anything of significance?” Harriet asked him. She was standing near the doorway and rubbing the nape of her neck.

  He did not reply but began to open the desk drawers in turn. Harriet looked about her. The walls were high and lined with gold-tooled volumes. Most, it seemed, were in Latin.

  “Is Carmichael a scholar?”

  “He never was. They are show. Everything here is show. There is nothing here. Or I cannot say rather whether there is or not.”

  “Would a spy bring a letter of introduction? ‘Dear Traitor, the man bearing this letter is another such as yourself and in the pay of the French. Make use of him.’”

  Crowther scowled. “It seems unlikely. But there must have been some signal between them. Something that could have been hidden in plain sight, yet which showed they were servants of the same master.”

  Harriet came away from the door and began to walk back and forth on the thick Turkish rug in front of the fireplace, avoiding the draft from the open window.

  “Something that could be hidden in plain sight. . That a musician might carry across any number of borders, and do so free from fear of detection.” She came to a sudden halt. “Do you remember that gentleman who visited Graves with a manuscript from Mr. Handel? Music! A code, a language of its own. It was in the music Fitzraven was carrying!”

  Crowther nodded and returned quickly to a leather folder on the desk in front of him.

  “There are pieces of manuscript in different hands here,” he said. Harriet watched him, her blood thudding under her skin. In the next room, the music was replaced by applause. “I may have something, Mrs. Westerman.”

  The door suddenly opened and Lord Carmichael stood in the entrance. He looked between them with curiosity. Harriet took hold of the mantelpiece and staggered a little.

  “No, Mr. Crowther, do not trouble looking for the salts anymore, I swear I am quite recovered.” She stumbled again, forcing Carmichael to come forward and take her arm. She looked up at him from under her long lashes. “Oh, thank you, my lord. I am so sorry. .”

  Crowther had to stop himself from staring at her in astonishment. He would at no point in his long career of study, from the ancient wisdom to the best thoughts of the modern day, have believed that the ability to fake a swoon was something he would admire, and that would save him.

  “Carmichael. Do you have smelling salts? Failing that, I was looking for paper to burn under Mrs. Westerman’s nose. It seems to cure a variety of female ills.” Harriet blushed a little. His tone was harsh, impatient.

  Lord Carmichael turned his lined and slightly ashy face between them. No man would have thought the pair in front of him friends or allies.

  “Really, it is not necessary, sir!” she said sharply in Crowther’s direction, then looking at Carmichael said more softly, “I am so sorry, my lord. It is simply I found myself overcome. The song is one of my husband’s favorites. He sings it still. .” A single tear ran down her cheek and she blinked her green eyes. “You know he is very unwell. Hearing it so beautifully performed. .”

  Carmichael looked at her cautiously. “Of course, madam. Quite understandable.”

  “And Mr. Crowther assisted me from the room.”

  “How good of him.”

  “How is your son, Lord Carmichael-Mr. Longley, whom I met yesterday?”

  Carmichael’s smile was unpleasant. “He is atoning for his sins.”

  Crowther looked sternly at Harriet. “Recovered then, Mrs. Westerman? If so, I think it best if we take you back to Berkeley Square where you may more comfortably indulge your grief.”

  Harriet lowered her head as if chastened. Crowther turned to his host.

  “Oh, Lord Carmichael. On this sordid little business of the opera house-is Mr. Johannes in residence here? I understand he goes everywhere with your house pet Manzerotti.”

  Lord Carmichael led Harriet to a chair and seated her there with a low bow before replying.

  “Manzerotti is an artist, not a house pet. Johannes makes his own arrangements in Town. He would not be comfortable here, I think. He is an artisan, and from time to time a very useful one. But he is not a guest in this house.”

  Harriet looked up at Carmichael as if he was a savior. He touched the bell and said, “Emotions seem to be running very high this evening. Miss Marin was so overcome by her own performance she had to leave immediately after the duet.”

  The carriage was summoned and Carmichael moved to leave the room, adding to Crowther with a bow, “Ah, women, Keswick. Such delicate ornaments to our society. They should be protected, yet you drag this poor woman through the mud. What an oddity your family has become.” Then he left the room before Crowther could find any answer to give.

  Jocasta fell asleep as soon as she had arranged the blankets around her. She and Sam had gone cautiously through the streets till they reached the cellar of a cobbler Jocasta knew. She had read the cards for the man a number of times and he, his wife and children thought her as great a sage as any in London. She had directed the man to a lost brooch of his wife’s, and predicted in a cloudy way the coming of a stranger who would do them a good turn the night before a careless maid had begged him to mend a shoe of her mistress she had broken at the heel. Maid and mistress were so pleased with the work he had done, he had found himself with a new steady stream of commissions from that lady and her friends. The new income had allowed the family to take an additional room where they now slept, so they were more than happy to let Jocasta and Sam lay their heads down in the cellar workshop. It had been a struggle not to let them give up their own beds. Now Sam and Jocasta slept with the one entrance to the place shut and fastened, and the family promising them secrecy and peace.

  Jocasta dreamed. It felt as if she had woken; sudden. The room seemed quiet enough, Sam and Boyo both snoring away in their corners, though it had a soft, buttery sort of feel to it, as if she were in a painting of the place rather than the flesh of it. Then it seemed to her that Kate was standing right in front of her and beckoning. For all the stories in the cards, Jocasta had never seen anything like a ghost before, so she was puzzled to find there was no sort of fear on her. She was curious, was all, and felt more friendly and trusting of the vision than she was of most living creatures she knew.

  She stood up from her bed, and Kate took her hand and turned to lead her off. As she did so, Jocasta caught what seemed like a glowing glimpse of the back of her head. It was red and matted, and the sight of it sent a tremor through her that Kate’s ghost seemed to feel. She turned again and shrugged with a twisted smile. Then without waking or sleeping, with no space in time you could slip a card in, it seemed that they were in the front room in Salisbury Street. There was a big ugly dresser in the corner of the room, made of heavy wood and squat on the floor as if it was hunkering and frowning. Then in front of it, a pretty little table in rosewood, oddly placed in the room. Kate led Jocasta toward it and, taking hold of both of Jocasta’s hands in her own, l
ifted them to the overhanging lip. Kate’s hands seemed very cool and dry; there was no clammy deathliness about the touch. She placed Jocasta’s fingers on the hidden surface of the wood, and moved them along a bit. Jocasta felt a button, a space in the wood, and pressed. There was a click deep inside the wood, and with a shuffling whisper, a long, thin drawer popped out from under. There were papers in it, smoothed very straight and flat, and all covered tight in black writing.

  Jocasta looked up at Kate, who didn’t move or smile. She gave no nod, she spoke no word, made no plea for justice, gave no news of what waits on the far side of the grave. She simply moved to Jocasta’s side. Jocasta felt a light touch in the small of her back, Kate’s other hand drifted over Jocasta’s eyes and rested on her forehead, and she pushed. Jocasta felt her center give way.

  Then found herself in another place, struggling to get back onto her feet in some version of the rookeries around behind Chandos Street. Strange fires leaped in the braziers, and the drunks lolling around them were interspersed with other figures. She recognized them from the cards. A man in motley with a staff over his shoulder and a sharp little beard was dancing for the drunken Irishman and his girl. When he laughed, you could see his crooked gums, his teeth all black and yellow stumps or gone. The High Priest stumbled past, his red and gold cloak trailing in the muck and his layered hat on backward; spittle hung from his fat open lips. Jocasta felt her elbow knocked and her hand went to her purse; she found herself looking into the blank eyes of The Magician. He was throwing up a ball in his cup and catching it again. He moved past her, and behind him she saw a figure sitting on the step of a doss-house on the other side of the way. He was winged like a bat, and the thin skin of his wings twitched slowly. On his head were horns that seemed to move and taste the air like the soft stalks of a snail. They reached about him, moving shadows thrown by the flames of the brazier. He lifted his head and looked straight at her. She saw a face made of burned and twisted roots, his skin like charred bark. He had his familiars with him-winged, sharp-eared and naked-the shape of young boys. They turned toward her with terrible slowness. Their faces were those of Finn and Clayton. The Devil hissed.

  She sat bolt upright in her bed in the cellar and waited for her heart to slow. Boyo and Sam slept on, just as she had seen them. But there was no ghost in the room and the air felt damp, rotten and familiar. Jocasta lay back down, turned to the wall and wondered.

  PART VI

  1

  WEDNESDAY, 21 NOVEMBER 1781

  Stephen Westerman’s day had begun well. He had been overjoyed to be woken by his mother and taken out to play a while in the gardens of Berkeley Square before he had even washed his face, and skipped among the shrubberies in front of her, describing the various anchorages and landing places, the haunts of strange tribes that would amaze even Captain Cook, which he and Lord Sussex had discovered between the rhododendrons. It felt like a sort of miracle to have her complete attention. She had laughed and praised his courage, gasped when he described his battles with the French and Spanish navies and nodded sagely as he described his negotiations with the natives of the newly christened isles of Servicia and Gravesonia.

  But then one of the servants had come out of the house with Jonathan and leading Anne by her fat little fist. The woman had spoken to his mother out of his hearing, and she left him at once, only wishing him fair sailing and kissing him distractedly on the top of his tousled head. He watched her go and meet two figures on the far side of the lawns. One was Mr. Crowther; the other he could not recognize at this distance.

  The little boy hated watching her grow small in his sight, and wondered if he had missed breakfast, and how he could be forgotten so quickly. Would she remember that he still had her ring? It was tucked in his waistcoat now. Part of him hoped that she had forgotten, as that meant she would not ask for it back. Some other part told him that it was bad if she had done so. That the ring, like himself, should not so easily be dismissed.

  Just then, Jonathan slapped him between the shoulders and began to dash along the path in front of him. It was a challenge, and could not be ignored. Turning, Stephen began to race after him, ignoring the cry of the nursemaid to mind his step.

  “Good morning, Crowther, Dr. Trevelyan.”

  The good doctor looked worried. Harriet was so used to his demeanor of calm good sense, she hardly knew him with his eyebrows drawn together and his chin low. Her heart fluttered and her mouth became dry.

  “Sir, is my husband well?”

  Trevelyan placed his hand on her arm and said quickly, “Indeed he is.” Harriet’s world steadied again and the sounds and sights of the Square returned to her.

  “He is quite well, I did not mean to alarm you,” the doctor went on. Harriet managed a faint smile and drew in her breath. “It is on the matter of Mr. Leacroft I wish to speak to you, and I am sorry to call so early in the day. I met Mr. Crowther as I was hesitating on your doorstep.”

  Harriet dismissed his apology with a shake of her head.

  “What do you have to tell us?” she demanded, then caught herself, continuing to calm her breathing. “My apologies, sir. Would you rather come into the house? You have had an early ride.”

  “No, madam,” Trevelyan said. “I must be returning to Highgate as soon as I may. I come because my colleague from Kennington Lane and I met by chance at our club last night, and something of what he said has been troubling me. I found I could not be easy till I had told you of it, though the significance of his words escapes me.”

  They turned and began to walk along the pathway that ringed the gardens. It was a broad path, and it was easy for all three to walk abreast. Trevelyan found himself with Crowther on one side and Mrs. Westerman on the other, and had a fleeting sympathy with felons accompanied to their places in court.

  He went on: “When I met this gentleman, we of course remarked on having found Mr. Leacroft. I do not know why you inquired after him, and on being asked, said as much. My colleague-his name is Gaskin, by the way-told me it was most strange, as after some year or so with no enquiries being made to his well-being, or visitors received, Mr. Leacroft had found himself the subject of a flurry of calls very recently, culminating in the arrival yesterday afternoon of Miss Isabella Marin, the soprano.”

  “A flurry of calls, you say?” Crowther asked, and came to a halt. He had his cane with him, and began to twist it slowly into the gravel of the pathway.

  Trevelyan nodded. “That was his phrase. He was entranced to meet Miss Marin, of course. She swore him to secrecy about her visit, but having happened to meet me, he could not resist informing me that she had been in his house. I wondered if she were there because of your inquiry.”

  If Trevelyan had been hoping that his words might lead to some sort of explanation from Crowther and Mrs. Westerman, he was disappointed. Harriet sat down on a bench by the walkway and gestured for him to join her. He did so. Crowther remained standing in front of him, his eyes low and still twisting his cane.

  “Can you tell us anything more of his other visitors, Dr. Trevelyan?” Crowther asked, without looking up.

  The good doctor found that the weight of their attention was making him nervous. “I asked him,” he replied. “He said the first was ten days ago, a rather nervous young man whose name Gaskin did not recall. He was apparently closeted with Mr. Leacroft for some hours. He returned a day or two later, again for some considerable period, but has not been seen since.”

  Harriet put her hand to her face. “Could that be Bywater? He was making enquiries, after all. So Bywater did find him! Yet he said nothing to Isabella, despite their fondness for one another. .”

  Crowther looked up and met her eyes, which were heavy with thought.

  “Remember, Mrs. Westerman, that despite that fondness he believed only that Mr. Leacroft was some acquaintance of her French singing teacher. He did not know the connection was personal. He may have thought that in concealing his discovery he was doing her no great injury, especially if he foun
d some other greater advantage from his visits.”

  Crowther and Harriet turned their attention to Trevelyan again. “But two visits, and another from Miss Marin yesterday does not constitute a ‘flurry,’” Crowther said. “What more?”

  “The second visitor was on Wednesday, only a week ago, and was a much older man. He too spent some time with Leacroft, and Gaskin was careful this time to remember his name. It was Fitzraven. That is the name of the gentleman whose death you have been investigating, is it not? As Mrs. Westerman mentioned in her note.” He looked up at Crowther, who merely nodded. There was a long silence.

  Crowther leaned forward on his cane and addressed Mrs. Westerman. “So let us suppose that Fitzraven followed Bywater on one or other of his visits. Might he have been able to inquire what sort of man Bywater was visiting, his profession, the nature of his malady-without announcing himself?”

  Harriet turned to Trevelyan, who raised his hands. “Hardly impossible. Gaskin has a number of servants, of course. A man may gossip about his employer for the price of a drink. Such is the way of the world.”

  “So,” Crowther said, “let us suppose that Fitzraven knew Bywater was visiting a mad, secluded musician. Then a week ago he decided to visit the man himself. What encouraged him to make that visit?”

  “Wednesday last. .” Harriet said, rapping her fingers against her dress with increasing speed. “If the ‘C’ e una rosa’ duet was first rehearsed on Thursday, then the parts would have to be got ready the previous day.”

  Crowther ceased to dig his cane into the pathway. “Which was the responsibility of Mr. Fitzraven.”

  “Dr. Trevelyan,” Harriet said very slowly, “does Mr. Leacroft continue his musical pursuits? Does his condition prevent. .?”

  The doctor turned to her with his kind gray eyes a little confused, but as frank and honest as ever. “No, Mrs. Westerman. Theophilius Leacroft has a harpsichord in his chamber and spends most of his hours at the keyboard.”