Anatomy of Murder caw-2

by Imogen Robertson

  Mr. Harwood himself and the leader of the band carried Isabella back to her room. Harriet followed behind, trying to support Morgan. She could hear words whispering around her.

  “So much in love. .”

  “Jealousy. . it’s killed many a man. .”

  Harriet kept her head down and tried to keep the woman at her side moving forward.

  When Harwood’s men found Crowther he was stooped over the body in the bathtub. He lifted his head to look at them. One stepped forward and opened and closed his mouth a few times. The lad found himself transfixed. Mr. Crowther removed his hand from the bathwater, and wiped it on the underside of his coat.

  “Tell me,” he said.

  The man struggled to find his voice, and on discovering it somewhere in the chill of his bones, did so.

  The door was beginning to open when Jocasta heard a male shout in the corridor. The voice sounded thick and drunk, but she knew it as Molloy’s.

  “Hey, lady! Give a man a drink and a dance! They’ve thrown me out upstairs!”

  Now a woman’s voice. “Who are you? Who let you visit here?”

  “Come on, sharp-eyes! I’ll sing you a waltz. .”

  Jocasta looked about her. There was a room with a bed in it just beyond. She twisted the tabletop again, so the drawers disappeared inside, and tumbled toward the open door. The bowl rattled. With a silent curse, she turned again to grab the papers off the surface and dived back into the bedchamber, starting to wedge herself under the frame and trailing blankets as she heard a sharp slap connecting outside, followed by a laugh and the sound of a man stumbling. The front door slammed, and she heard the door to the main room opening, then closing.

  “Freddy! You here? That whore upstairs has had another drunk in the place.” The door to the bedchamber opened wider, and Jocasta felt a body cross the bare light then go again.

  “I’ll throw the bitch out on the street,” the voice mumbled. Jocasta tried to breathe easy. There was the sound of the flint striking and a candle flared.

  When Crowther entered Isabella’s dressing room, he found the general gloom lit by twin candles set in silver, placed either side of the soprano’s head. Some manner of trestle had been set up in the middle of the room, and she lay there as if in state. Her face had been cleaned of its stage makeup, and she looked shockingly lovely in the soft white light of the flames. A sheet was drawn up to her neck. Morgan sat by her head, but did not look up from the corpse when Crowther opened the door. He saw a shift in the shadows and caught sight of Mrs. Westerman sitting in a deep armchair in the corner of the room. He inclined his head and she stood slowly, and having looked a moment at Morgan, followed him out of the room and into the corridor.

  “Has everyone gone?” she said, as the door shut softly behind them.

  “Harwood and some of the servants will remain tonight. And there is a constable from Bow Street at each of the entrances to the place. I understand your sister and Miss Chase left over an hour ago.”

  “Morgan carried her from the scene room. The blood trail runs all the way to the wings.”

  “What was her intention?” Crowther asked.

  “I cannot say. I think she was become a little mad. She knew Isabella had to be on stage and took her there. I am not sure she even knew she was dead until she set her down and saw how she was covered in blood.” Harriet paused and bit her lip, then added, “Did he kill himself?”

  “We shall talk of that later, Mrs. Westerman. But first there is something I must show you. Something rather strange is happening.”

  He led her in silence through the darkened lobby and past Mr. Harwood’s office to the deserted coffee rooms that overlooked Hay Market. Mr. Harwood was at the window. On seeing them come in he moved to one side without comment, and Crowther guided Harriet to his former place. She looked out. There was a crowd outside, largely silent, and any that spoke did so in hushed voices.

  It seemed every class of Londoner was represented in the mass of people. There were boys in ragged coats and rag-bound feet, neat-looking servant women, standing with their arms linked. The local watchman, leathery and decrepit, rested his weight on his stick. Women in silk and men in evening dress stood in small groups, and as Harriet watched, two sedan chairs stopped and a prosperous-looking gentleman stepped out of one, and handed his respectable-looking wife out of the other. But it was not this that drew a sigh from Harriet and made her lift her hand to her mouth. The flower women stood with their baskets empty, the boys were curled up across the road cutting paper as fast as they could and putting them into the hands of the men and women who approached them. The pavement was covered in roses; all along the front of His Majesty’s and ankle-deep in places, the pavement was covered in yellow roses.

  PART VII

  1

  THURSDAY, 22 NOVEMBER 1781

  “Mr. Pither! if you will only look about you one moment and consider!” It was rare that Crowther found himself to be the most heated person in the room, but his patience had snapped like kindling this morning. It was Harriet, pale and leaning against the broken door of Richard Bywater’s room, who managed to remain calm. Crowther was forced to consider that a night of marginal rest had managed to create some strange exchange in their characters. He was all impatience and movement; she still and speaking little. Yet she did speak now, shaking her head as Mr. Pither once again, under the guise of congratulation, insisted that the investigation was complete.

  “Dear sir,” she said, “it may well be that Bywater killed Fitzraven to hide his plagiarism, or more likely in a rage on finding himself blackmailed-”

  “Undoubtedly!” Pither interrupted with great glee. “Then on hearing that Mademoiselle also knew of his treachery, and perhaps suspecting this heinous crime, he killed her at the opera house, and then himself in a fit of remorse! Mr. Crowther found his confession in this very room.”

  Harriet could not help noticing that Mr. Pither had gained a certain fluency now he believed his case was made. She did her utmost to remember that Pither was one of the better justices of London, but his pleasure, undisguised, with Bywater’s corpse still lying before them was difficult for her to forgive. She suspected him of imagining the newspaper paragraphs dancing before him.

  “Please, sir,” she tried again, “the note Crowther found was only three words long. ‘I killed him.’ Not them, Mr. Pither. My dear sir, do you not think if he had just run back in haste from the murder of Miss Marin in order to bleed to death before Crowther could get here and gain entry, he would have said, ‘I killed her’? or ‘I killed them both’?”

  Mr. Pither opened his mouth, but before he could restate his case, Crowther had begun to speak again.

  “And the valise, Mr. Pither. What man packs his belongings before slicing his wrists? Bywater’s intention was to leave London yesterday, not to die.”

  Pither folded his arms and stuck out his lip, reminding Harriet of nothing so much as her little boy when he was told the orchard could not be converted into a boating lake. “He may have at first thought to flee, then decided death was an easier exit,” he said very firmly.

  Crowther stepped forward to the body and lifted the chin. Harriet watched calmly, but Pither flinched. “What of these bruises round the face? What of the empty gin bottle on the mantelpiece? I will swear to it I shall find most of this bottle in his belly.”

  Pither’s voice became a little keening. “Well you might, sir. What could be more natural than to take a drink before committing such a desperate act. And the bruises may arise from any chance encounter in the street. I think your theory much more far-fetched than mine, Mr. Crowther.” He attempted a dismissive laugh. It was not a great success, but he continued undaunted: “You really think he arrived here, was forced to drink gin enough to render him insensible, was stripped, placed in the bathtub and had his wrists slashed all in the thirty minutes between the beginning of the second interval and your arrival here?”

  The growl in Crowther’s voice grew almost to a roa
r. “Mr. Pither, I suggest no such thing!”

  The justice gave a little instinctive skip away from him.

  “What Crowther is suggesting, Mr. Pither, is that Bywater was killed some time before the performance, and therefore could not have been the murderer of Miss Marin.”

  “But her maid Morgan says-”

  Harriet continued, “Her maid says only that she intended to meet Mr. Bywater. Her note to that effect is also on the table. Perhaps he was composing a note to her to be delivered rather than keep his appointment. Morgan found Isabella dying in the scene room. She did not see who attacked her.”

  “And more than that, look!” Crowther’s voice was another angry shout. He rocked the body over in the tub, splashing the pink waters on his shirtsleeves. Pither lifted his chin as if attempting to see what was indicated without approaching any nearer. “No, in all damnation come closer.” Pither gave a look of appeal to Harriet, who simply shrugged, then inched toward the tub trying to avoid the suspicious pools on the floorboards. “His femoral artery has been severed. That was done with a knife. I’d swear his wrists were cut with the same blade. Not with. .” he let the body fall back into the water then picked up a handkerchief from the mantel, shaking it open to reveal a bloody razor “. . this cheap shaving kit.”

  Mr. Pither gave a little shiver at the sight of the blade. “It is all bloody!”

  “Yes-but in the wrong way! All smeared and pasted on, though Bywater’s hand is clean. This is a performance-a trick.”

  Pither peered at them. “But can you swear, either of you, that he absolutely could not have died after Miss Marin?”

  Crowther slammed the razor back down on the mantelpiece. “The room was warm; the body in warm water. .”

  Harriet raised her head again. “No one, not a single person, Mr. Pither, saw Bywater at His Majesty’s at any point yesterday.”

  Mr. Pither became prim, trembling a little with a glorious sense that he was regaining some control of the situation. “That was not my question.”

  Crowther said quietly, “I know of no way to ascertain precisely the time of death. With the wound to his leg he would certainly have died in minutes. That could have been at any time between five o’clock and my arrival here. The fire was low, but healthy.”

  Mr. Pither almost smiled. “So he could have arranged to have the bath prepared. Popped out to the theater to murder the lovely Miss Marin then back to kill himself in despair. And you cannot prove otherwise. As to the knife, perhaps he stabbed his leg then. . then. . threw the knife into the street, where any vagabond passing might have picked it up!” He looked pleased with his inspiration.

  As Harriet’s shoulders slumped and Crowther turned away in disgust, Pither continued, “As to these strange theories of yours, you can provide neither myself nor the magistrates at Bow Street with any suspect to interrogate, so I see no reason to regard them seriously.”

  “But the evidence,” Crowther growled again.

  “The evidence is quite clear to any reasonable human being,” Mr. Pither said, his mouth pursed together like a rosebud. “Indeed, I am sorry you could not capture Mr. Bywater before he killed poor Miss Marin, but there it is. Your assistance has been invaluable. I shall instruct the coroner and am very happy to inform the newspapers of the debt we all owe you.”

  “The papers be damned,” Harriet said in the same weary voice she had used all morning.

  Pither sniffed. “Whatever you say, Mrs. Westerman. Mr. Leacroft’s authorship of the duet will be acknowledged in due course. Or rather we will keep his name out of it if the gentleman wishes to be left alone. Miss Marin’s unfortunate origins need not be exposed. She will be honored as a martyr to truth, sacrificing love and her life so that Leacroft’s work would not be stolen. I understand a number of notable ladies are already in the process of arranging a subscription for a monument to that effect-one has already been in contact with my wife. Now I wish you good day.”

  He turned and scurried out of the place, with nothing but Crowther’s black looks to follow him.

  2

  Jocasta called softly at the cellar entrance, half-expecting she’d have to knock loud before the boy woke up, but the bolt flew back in a hurry and before she could step back, she had Sam throwing himself against her and Boyo yapping around her feet.

  Sam released her almost at once and ran back into the dark of the workshop, hiding himself under the blankets with his face to the wall.

  Jocasta came and sat by him, then pulled a fold of newspaper full of fried bits of meat from her pocket. His swift hug had made the grease run, but she divided what was there and put his share by his side, chucked Boyo some scraps and began to eat her portion.

  “I thought you were dead.”

  Jocasta sniffed. “Well, I’m not. Got stuck is all.”

  There was a long pause then Sam turned in his bed and began to pick away at his food. “I was up all night.” His voice was sulky and sore.

  “What are you, mother to me now, whelp?”

  Sam turned his back on her again, through he took his share with him. Jocasta finished eating, balled the newsprint in her hand and said, less fiercely, “Got it though. And Molloy came good. Got me in and saved my arse ten minutes later.”

  “How so?” Sam asked, muffled and damp-sounding.

  “Gave me a moment to hide when I needed it.” She looked down at the thin bones of his shoulders. “Sorry you were scared, Sam. I was scared enough for us both, but I had to wait till Missus and him were sleeping before I could slip out, and they talked half the night. That is, Milky Boy was shouting and slurping his words. Ripley got him good and drunk at the chophouse.”

  Sam shifted and looked at her with his strange, serious eyes. “What were they talking on, Mrs. Bligh?”

  “I’ll tell you. Reckon I met your Tonton Macoute an’ all.”

  Sam’s eyes got wide. “You saw him?”

  “Not saw him exactly, just a little bit. Heard. Or sort of heard. Get us something to drink now, I’ve been breathing slut’s wool all night and my mouth’s too dry to tell.”

  He was up and grabbing the pitcher so fast, Boyo spun a circle and barked.

  Harriet pushed herself away from the wall while Crowther tried to speak a little more like himself.

  “We must examine the body here, I believe. If you would care to send Harwood’s men into the room, we may arrange the corpse and I can begin.”

  Harriet took her cloak from the chair behind her and began to set it round her shoulders.

  “I shall certainly send them in. But for myself, I have to go, Crowther. I am taking Stephen to visit James this morning. It is already a little past the hour I promised him we should depart.”

  Crowther looked at her in surprise. “Surely, Mrs. Westerman, you can have no intention of traveling all the way out to Highgate this morning?”

  She paused in the fastening of the cloak and said evenly, “I have every intention of doing so. I made a promise to my son.”

  “A promise made before these people were murdered! This is nonsense.”

  Harriet stiffened. “You call it nonsense? I have a duty to my husband and son, and what could I do here? You know Bywater bled to death. You do not need me to examine his stomach contents. I have seen the room and we agree. We shall meet later in the day.”

  “As you wish, madam.” His voice was very cold.

  Harriet’s hands fumbled at her fastenings and she said fiercely, “Oh, don’t talk to me in that tone, Crowther! Lord, I am bullied and harried at every side. Rachel, Graves, Mrs. Service’s concerned looks! Now you begin. You told me yourself to take Stephen. It is not his fault this blood has been spilled, and my husband is ill, and I must care for him.”

  Crowther spoke with a faint drawl. “Care for him, or be seen to care for him, Mrs. Westerman?”

  She spun toward him, her finger raised and accusing, red spots of color rising in her pale cheeks. Crowther had the startling impression that if she had been within reach,
she would have struck him.

  “Do not dare, sir! Never for a moment. . never dare question my love for my husband! Not you! There is not another man in England of half his worth, not another man better loved by his family or more valued. I would gladly give my life. .” It seemed the air went out of her lungs. She turned away with her head down. “Do not dare, sir.”

  Crowther shut his eyes briefly before opening them again and saying, “My apologies, madam. I spoke in haste.”

  She would not look at him. “I hope to see you this afternoon at Berkeley Square,” she said very quietly, and left the room.

  Crowther turned and slammed the wall above Bywater’s mantelpiece with the flat of his hand.

  In his keenness to hear her, Sam seemed to have forgotten he was angry with Mrs. Bligh. Jocasta wiped the small beer off her mouth, took her papers from her pocket and dropped them in front of him. He touched them gently, as if they might sting.

  “What do they say?” he asked.

  “Can’t tell. Looks like a list of some sort, and there are numbers too. We’ll go and ask Ripley and thank him for getting Fred so messy at the chophouse.”

  Sam sniggered. “Was he horrid out of it?”

  “Heard him meet sharp with every stick of furnishing in the place, and all the time whining and grieving till the old bitch slapped some quiet into him.” Jocasta smiled, then went more serious again. “He went still as the grave when the other fella came in though.”

  Sam shivered. “Tonton Macoute?”

  “Maybe. I couldn’t hear him. His side of it was all whispered. Mother Mitchell’s voice could cut rock, though. Heard her.”

  Sam had wrapped his arms round his knees. “Did they say anything on Finn and Clayton, Mrs. Bligh?”

  Jocasta leaned forward to pick up Boyo by his scruff and set him on her knees. “Reckon they did. From her words, it sounded like they’d decided I’d taken warning and was gone. She praised the fella for it.” She pulled at Boyo’s ears, and the terrier twisted around to lick her hand. “She sounded fat and happy. Something happened last night that made her light-as if all their troubles were neatened. Then I heard her open the table and give him the papers.”