Sam’s eyes went wide. “Did they notice you’d filched some, Mrs. Bligh?”
She shook her head. “There were bundles. I just took a few pages from the middle, is all. Then I heard him speak.”
“What did he say?”
“If you gave a fox or a crow a voice and told it to speak quiet, I reckon it would sound like that. He said his master thought there was a sailor might give trouble. Something about a bloke picked up on a boat what might have said something he shouldn’t, so this sailor needed finding and sorting.”
“Did you hear a name?”
“Maybe. It was said lower than the rest, my mind’s still trying to get its tongue round it, and my old heart was banging about so. Then Fred was promising him more papers and the crow voice was out of the place.”
Sam’s face was so serious and thoughtful, Jocasta almost laughed. “Come on then, lad, if your breakfast’s finished. We got to go and see Ripley, then Molloy. Make our thanks and make our way.”
“What about the sailor?”
“We’ll ask about, and them as we ask will ask too, soon as I can wring a name from my head.”
3
Harriet had been aware of Isabella’s letters to Fitzraven in her possession and the necessity of reading them, but in the rush of the last days she had found it relatively simple to avoid the task. They had not been mentioned at the conclusion of their first interview with Miss Marin, and Harriet had assumed that a tacit agreement had been reached between all those present that they would be read and then returned without comment, unless comment was particularly called for. She had not liked to do so, however; it was a gross intrusion, and her own liking for the soprano had made the issue uncomfortable. Now she opened the package on her lap without any feeling other than a profound sympathy. Crowther had been right. The dead had no privacy at all.
The first letter was written from Milan and was a cautious note saying that she was glad Mr. Fitzraven had written and she would be pleased to know more of him. Harriet smiled. She could imagine that Isabella would have wished to say a great deal more, but that Morgan had been authoritative and insisted on knowing something of Fitzraven’s intentions before allowing Isabella to admit he was her father.
Harriet glanced up. Her son, Stephen, sat opposite her in the carriage in his best Sunday clothes and cradling on his lap a large model of the Splendor, James’s last and most loved command. The model had been made for him by two of Harriet’s servants at Caveley while the family was in London; both were former naval men as devoted to the boy as they had been to the father. Her housekeeper’s husband, James’s particular servant on all his commands, had recruited those of the crew he thought sufficiently trustworthy to people the vessel with little figures, and the little painted carvings had been sent back with letters and dispatches of the navy. The result was magnificent and had been sent up from the country some days previously with an enormous quantity of cheese, butter and eggs. These last had been welcomed with delight by the housekeeper at Berkeley Square and applauded as paradigms.
Harriet herself had sat at Stephen’s side while he composed his thank-you letter to the boatbuilders. He had done so with painful concentration in his own hand, and she helped a little with phrasing and mended his pen. Harriet could imagine his literary style being praised in the high stone kitchen at Caveley for days, and the little boy’s pleasure being spoken about even now on the open seas. Stephen had asked if he might bring the ship to show his Papa, and after a moment she had agreed. Now he balanced it on his lap, guarding it from every jerk and dip of the road that the Earl of Sussex’s suspension could not iron out, and when he was not lost in contemplation of the rigging, he peered out of the window. He looked, she realized, resolute. Harriet smiled and opened the next letter.
It must have been this note that had led to Fitzraven’s commission to go abroad for His Majesty’s. In it, Miss Marin said that if circumstances allowed, she would be very glad to spend some time in London. She said further that it would be a great pleasure to meet in person with Mr. Fitzraven; she would meet him and listen “with an open heart” to all he had to say, and do so in hopes of developing a fuller friendship.
Harriet could easily imagine Fitzraven coming to see Harwood with this letter in his hand-how he would have boasted of his cleverness in securing such a positive beginning to negotiations with Miss Marin. To Harwood it would look as if the prize of having the celebrated Isabella Marin singing on his stage was within his reach; to Fitzraven it would seem his luck had finally rewarded his merits and that his bastard daughter would open up a world of new influence, money and connections. And Isabella? Harriet looked out of the window, where the new buildings along Gray’s Inn Road were giving way to fields and hedgerow still dewy with the early hour. Smoke reared and bent from the chimney stacks, and Harriet’s fingers tapped on the paper in her lap. Isabella was a romantic. She had seen the possibility of redemption for her own fouled childhood; for her mother knocked down in the mud of the street. She had wished to save Fitzraven and call him Father, and now she lay, lost herself, in His Majesty’s Theatre while the street outside silted up with the tribute of yellow roses. A touching image, but not what she had had in mind.
How had their meeting been? Isabella, trying not to be disappointed in her father. Fitzraven, finding himself on short commons from Harwood’s bankers, and his daughter defended by the indomitable Morgan. It would have been indeed the moment for some enterprising agent of the French to notice him, and see a man with connections and ambition; to whom loyalty was nothing when it could be parlayed into money or influence; who wanted nothing more than to ferret out information from those who liked to have their business concealed.
To be an agent of the French would act like an aphrodisiac on Fitzraven: secrecy, knowledge, money, power-revenge perhaps on all those such as Sandwich who would not be his friend. Harriet could imagine that, if she had been in the position of an agent of the French, she would have thought him an excellent character to put to work. He would also be able to carry instructions and money from France to those already in place in London without arousing suspicion.
She looked again at Isabella’s handwriting. It was graceful and flowing and used a great quantity of very fine paper. Then back in London, Fitzraven perhaps could not resist still spying for old reasons, his personal strategies, and, already having to step around Morgan, found in the affection between Isabella and Bywater another frustration. It would have been another opportunity to feel himself at first hard done by, then superior, controlling.
Stephen sat up a little straighter and Harriet realized the carriage had turned into Trevelyan’s driveway. The little boy looked at her with an air of slight nervousness. She put her hand on his knee and, meeting his blue eyes with her own emerald gaze, said, “Stephen, remember, if Papa still seems strange it is only because of his illness. He loves us. Be brave, as he would be.”
The carriage door opened and one of the footmen let down the step. Harriet was handed down first, then Stephen was lifted out, still clutching his model. The footman ruffled Stephen’s hair and winked at him. The boy smiled. Harriet thought it best not to see the exchange, but was grateful, then stepped smartly forward as Dr. Trevelyan emerged from the portico to greet them.
Ripley was quiet for a space. Jocasta sat opposite him in the back of the chophouse and Sam was frisking with Boyo under the table.
“It’s a list.”
“That, Ripley, I can see, even with no reading-but of what?”
Ripley put his hand up to his chin as if to try and find the bit of fluff that was starting to sprout, and twisted the paper around so it sat between them.
“These are names of boats, I think. I recognize one or two from reports of battles with the Frenchies. They’re some of them written out full, some of them noted quick, like. This here at the top. . and here. .” his finger drifted farther down the page and jabbed at another word on its ownsome “. . these are places. Spithead and Portsmouth. Then u
nder each are the boats and each name has a note or two. Like here-says Pegasus, six months provisioned, ready for sea, and here says Repulse 64 will be ready in fourteen days.”
Jocasta frowned. “What’s the sixty-four?”
“Number of guns on the boat, I think, Mrs. Bligh. And on it goes-both these pages are covered with names like that. Here’s one arrived from Ireland, here’s another they say on a cruise.”
“What’s that then?”
Ripley shrugged and turned the paper back to her. “When they go out and find another fella’s boat and take the stuff on it. Or so I think. Naval types all go to Maisie’s chophouse farther up the Strand when they’re about. Her husband was in the service till he died of it, see. So I don’t hear a lot of naval talk.”
“Fred comes here, mind,” Jocasta said, as she folded up the paper and put it back in her pocket.
Ripley sat back and stretched his arms. “That’s clerks not sailors. We get a fair few of them, all inky and thin and gnawing on the bones past where your dog’d leave them.”
“You did us a good turn with that Fred last night, Ripley.”
“Always glad to do you a favor, Mrs. Bligh. Not that it was much of a trial. He was in here with two others and they were glowing before they sat down.” He curled his lip. “All mighty pleased with themselves and trying to grab Sally’s arse, though his wife’s only been in her grave a day. I’d call him a dog but that would be an insult to your Boyo.”
“He turned mournful by time he got home.”
“Sally got sick of it and gave him a slap and an earful. He was so pissed by then he turned from up to down like a hoop.”
They paused, both examining the grain on the rough table between them. Ripley spoke up again first.
“Were there lots of papers like that, Mrs. Bligh?”
“Aye. Plenty.”
Ripley scratched slowly at the back of his neck. “It’s treason, isn’t it? They don’t just hang you for that. If that list was meant for the French or Americans, that’s cause to cut a man’s guts out while he’s still breathing. Legal. Have an eye to it. I heard about Finn and Clayton.”
Jocasta stood heavily and beckoned Sam over. “You’re getting awful wise as you grow, Ripley, ain’t you?”
He folded his arms. “Don’t have no choice in the matter, Mrs. Bligh. Anyways, I’m saying you need a sailor, one you can trust, and a high-up.”
“I know. And higher than I can reach so we’d better find a way to climb.”
4
Captain James Westerman got up very quickly when they entered the room. He had been reading in his armchair in the large room that was currently his home. For a moment he seemed confused about what to do with the book that he now held in his hands, then, having laid it very carefully on the side table, he came toward them with a swift, awkward stride.
Harriet moved forward and said his name. His face brightened as she did so. She held her face to one side to be kissed but found herself instead folded hard in his arms. The strength of the embrace drove the air out of her lungs. “Harry, Harry, Harry. .” he said. His stubble was rough against her skin. “You are my wife.”
She made her body as soft as possible, her voice steady, closing her hands behind his back as best as she could. “I am, James.” His hand swam down her spine and pulled her firmly against him, pressing his mouth against her throat. Then he suddenly released her, and stepping back, took her shoulders in his hands and studied her. He was smiling widely, his eyes glittering like the water on a fair day.
“My beautiful wife.”
He then turned toward his son. Stephen had set down his model by the door and now approached slowly with his hand extended in front of him. “. . And my boy!” Ignoring the hand, James picked Stephen up under his arms and swung him around. Harriet saw a moment of fear in the child’s eyes and began to step forward, but before the thought could catch into form, she heard her son’s fierce high laugh. James gathered the boy to his chest and bent over till the lad was almost upside down, giggling and struggling. James tipped him back up and threw him in the air again before setting him down on his heels and crouching down so they were eye to eye.
“And what will you be when you grow up, Stephen?”
“A sailor, sir.”
James roared with laughter. “That’s my lad! That’s my good boy!” Stephen flung his arms around his father’s neck and James patted his back. “That’s my good boy! And you shall have fair winds and fine battles and a pretty wife and a clever son just like me.”
Harriet lowered herself carefully into the chair James had vacated and glanced at the book he had been puzzling over. It was a child’s book of simple rhymes and stories. On one of the blank pages she saw that someone had tried to write a word, then, troubled by it, had fiercely scrubbed it out and filled the page instead with angry black lines. It took her a moment to recognize the hand as James’s.
He and Stephen were now examining the model of the Splendor. Stephen was explaining how part of the side planking came away to expose the gun decks. Each battery was in position with its crew. Stephen introduced each of the tiny figures and James nodded slowly over them.
“There is one missing,” he said suddenly, with a frown.
Stephen sat back on his heels. “Who, Papa?”
“The Frenchman,” said James slowly.
Stephen put his head on one side and bit his fingertip. “I have no other figures, Papa.” Then, with sudden cheerfulness: “Might we use the cook?” He pushed his fingers into the boat and pulled out a tiny being hardly bigger than his fingernail. He looked up at his father’s frowning face. “Will it do, sir?” James nodded slowly. “Where does he go, Papa?”
James reached in a finger through the planking and tapped a spot Harriet could not see.
“In the sick bay, sir?” His father nodded and Stephen placed the little figure on its back. James picked up the figures on the quarterdeck one by one, examining each till he found the one with epaulettes. He lifted it level with his eyes and looked into its tiny features.
“Ha!” he said, with apparent joy, and placed his model self next to the Frenchman. Stephen watched him.
“What are you talking about with the Frenchman, Papa?”
James bit his thumb. “He was crying. I made him cry more.” He began to sing some tune Harriet did not recognize. Stephen looked confused, but curious. James suddenly turned toward his son.
“Are you a spy?”
“No, sir!” Stephen said smartly, and lifted his chin. “Death to traitors, sir!” James laughed very heartily and clapped him on the back, then leaning close to the little boy and looking up at Harriet, he whispered: “Is she a spy?”
Stephen laughed. “No, sir! That is Mama. She is very clever.”
James met Harriet’s eye for a moment. “Pretty, too!” Harriet looked away.
Stephen pushed one of the gun carriages to and fro on its tiny wheels.
“I do not think baby Anne is a spy either, sir. I can’t answer for her character, but she is very little.”
A slow delighted smile spread over James’s face.
“I have a daughter too.” He turned to Stephen and took his shoulders. “You must look after them, Stephen. Do not let the spies get them!” Stephen looked a little afraid, but nodded bravely. “Good lad, good lad,” James said, rather distracted, then turned away, singing the same tune again. He brought his palm suddenly to his forehead with a slap that made Harriet jump. “I cannot get that song out of my head. Hate it. Smells bad.”
Stephen took the tiny figure of his father from the sick bay and placed it on the quarterdeck with the other officers and fitted the side planking back in place. James turned to watch him and put out a hand to touch the rigging. His fingers drifted down the main topgallant, and skimmed the mizzen staysail.
Stephen looked up at him and said quietly, “What are your orders, Captain?”
“Are we provisioned and watered, Lieutenant?”
“Yes, si
r.”
“Where stands the wind?”
“North by northwest, sir.”
“Very good.” James traced the stern with a fingertip. When he spoke again, his voice was so soft Harriet had to strain to hear it. “You may set topsails, Mr. Westerman.”
5
Molloy they found in the Pear and Oats wreathed in his usual pipe smoke-though this time when he looked up at them he gave them a leering smile that made it look as if his face would spill and fall then and there.
“Come to make your thanks, Mrs. Bligh?”
“I have.”
“Any profit yet?”
“Nothing but extra trouble and questions.”
Molloy pulled his pipe out from between his teeth, spat on the floor and lost his good humor.
“I should never have let you bounce me about with your cards, Mrs. Bligh. Now I suppose I am to get my share of those troubles instead of coin.”
Jocasta met his eye steadily enough. “If you’ll take it.”
“Bah! Woman!” He looked about the place. A couple of men in worn coats nursed their beer at the far end of the long bar, and a young woman with nothing but a holed and dirty shawl over her stays pushed a filthy rag across one of the tabletops in the middle of the room. She was ghostly pale, and nothing in her figure or movement suggested she was much taken with the world around her. Molloy selected his places of business with care. There would be some warmth and some liquor to sit over, and not too far from the more populated places; but he needed rooms with corners enough for private conversation and where the few regulars would crawl in quiet and mind their own business, and the bright, noisy, curious or prosperous would stick their noses in only to hurry by again quick. “Still too early in the day for my usual trade. Send that lad out for food so at least I won’t starve listening to you, and listen I will.”
Anatomy of Murder caw-2 Page 30