Anatomy of Murder caw-2

by Imogen Robertson

  “But why are you here? Why no notice of your coming? Is there some problem at Thornleigh Hall?”

  Clode looked a little shy. “No, everything is in order in Sussex, and the rebuilding progresses. I was summoned here by Miss Trench and by young Lady Susan. They seemed to believe you might wish to negotiate the purchase of this shop from Lord Sussex’s estate. And I am here to see you do not rob yourself or your future father-in-law too far for the children’s sake.”

  Graves looked sorry for a moment, then laughed. “Lord, I am plotted against on every side. Everyone insists I should be happy. But I am very glad to see you, coconspirator that you are.”

  “Miss Trench said something in her note about her sister and a murder?”

  Graves shrugged and turned to a pile of scores on the counter. They were the latest edition of the “Yellow Rose Duet.” On the title page of each, the name Bywater had been crossed out by hand, and replaced with Composition of a certain Gentleman.

  Giving up on ever getting the corners square, Graves spoke over his shoulder. “Yes, Mrs. Westerman and Crowther surround us with bodies and horrors again. I can see why Miss Trench might have some need of your support, as well as wishing to see Miss Chase and I properly bound up and established. I do not see what drives them. . There must be something more to the case, as I cannot think with the captain so ill, Mrs. Westerman would involve herself in such a business for mere amusement.”

  Clode smiled, showing an almost unnatural number of good teeth. “Be comforted, Graves. Mrs. Westerman would not do such things without an excellent reason.”

  Graves turned back to him and folded his arms. “You are too trusting a person to be a solicitor, Clode. I fear for the children’s fortunes in your hands. But perhaps you are right. You will be a breeze of good sense and clean air among us.”

  Clode made a sharp bow, clicking the heels of his boots together as he did, then said more gently, “But what of the captain, Owen? Has he improved?”

  Graves sighed and wiped his hand across his brow. “The improvement is slight, but steady. I understand from Stephen that he was both calm and affectionate in his manner this morning, if still rather erratic or childlike in his speech.”

  His friend stepped forward and put a hand on Graves’s elbow. “Then I’d say the improvement was considerable.”

  Graves looked into his friend’s open face above him, saying, “Was it very bad when he first came home, Daniel?”

  Clode nodded and turned away a little before replying. “Past endurance. He was vicious, hardly rational, horribly demanding and dangerous when thwarted. Mrs. Westerman and Miss Trench had so longed for him to return, but when he did it was dreadful. Lord, Owen! If Crowther had not found Trevelyan, it might have become necessary to intervene to keep the children and ladies safe. Did you know their footman and groom at Caveley had twice to forcibly lock their master in his chamber to save Mrs. Westerman’s neck? These are men who had served with him, who had entrusted their lives to him, now forced to confine him in his own home. Equally I saw him at moments when he was no more than a little strange, but still friendly, affectionate to his children. Stephen, however, I think he must have struck at some point. No boy should flinch in that way when his father approaches. No mother should look so fearful when her son and husband come together.”

  Graves was quiet a long while. “I had no idea it had been so serious.”

  “Yes,” Clode said. “And of course, if during any of his more apparently lucid moments he had sold the estate for less than you keep in your pocketbook, it would have been very hard to retrieve it. There-you see? I do speak like a lawyer from time to time.”

  “Was that likely?”

  Clode nodded. “One afternoon he attempted it. He tried to sell the estate, his wife and his children for enough money to buy a horse and cover his expenses to regain Plymouth and the Splendor. He even had some of the necessary documents about him. It seems he had sense enough to gather them up when his servants and family refused to have his horse saddled and concealed the cash box.”

  “What happened?”

  “He made the offer to Michaels at the Bear and Crown who is a better man than most, and smarter.”

  “Yes, I remember him. He refused the offer, I assume?”

  “No. I would have done, and I’d have been a fool to do so. Michaels knew that the next man the captain had the ear of might not be so scrupulous. He gave Westerman money and a horse, took the papers and shook hands with him, then sent word straight back to Caveley. Mrs. Westerman’s servants restored her husband to her the following day. He did not resist. Indeed David, the coachman, was convinced he had already forgot his purpose and was merely happy to see faces with which he was familiar. Michaels said he had been desperate when he had seen him to warn the crew of the Splendor that they had a spy on board and England was teeming with more of the same.”

  Graves shook his head. “Good God. To have the person you love best redelivered to you, but in such a changed manner. I had no idea. .”

  Clode clapped him on the shoulder. “Enough! This is too serious a welcome. Come-smuggle me into your home so I may make myself respectable and greet the ladies of your household looking like a gentleman.”

  Mr. Tompkins was delighted to see Harriet and Crowther, and spent the time it took to walk from Mrs. Girdle’s to Gladys’s house telling them so, when he was not remarking on the terror of an audience with Gladys’s mother, Mrs. Spitter. The lady was a tyrant, according to his report: fierce in her opinions, final in her judgments and occasionally crushing in their delivery.

  “She loves Gladys, though,” Tompkins admitted. “She’d kill anyone who ever troubled that girl. Funny thing that she is.” Bearing this in mind, they sent up their cards and were swiftly shown into a pleasant parlor on the first floor. The room had generous windows overlooking the main street and by the fire was a low circular table with neat striped settees on either side. The whole gave the impression of modest prosperity, sensibly enjoyed.

  Two ladies rose to greet them. Mrs. Spitter was a woman of generous proportions with a firm jaw and shoulders that would have made her a grenadier if she had been born a man. The lines of her dress were certainly severe, bodice and skirt striped purple and black, but what made her appearance a little eccentric was the quantity of jet with which her person was adorned. Three great ropes of glimmering stones hung around her neck, her fingers were hidden to the knuckles with black lozenges, her wrists bristled with beads, bangles and bracelets all pitch polished. They gave her a sort of dark glow. Harriet was sure that in many of the less frequented places she had visited on the globe, Mrs. Spitter would, on first sight, have been acknowledged as some goddess of revenge or queen of the underworld, and Harriet for one would not have thought the natives unwise in their choice.

  Next to her stooped a girl whom Harriet guessed to be twenty-five at the most. She was all milk to Mrs. Spitter’s tar. Her face was not unpleasant, but rather blank, and her mouth never seemed quite shut, while her eyes looked and blinked at the company with an air of mildly curious surprise. She was so pale her complexion seemed tinged blue, and her hair was blond but very thin and weak. Her gaze picked out Mr. Tompkins and she gave him such an openhearted smile of welcome that Harriet found herself oddly touched.

  It seemed Mr. Tompkins was a little at a loss as to who to introduce to whom, so simply opened his mouth once or twice and shut it again. Mrs. Spitter started to raise her eyebrows, which Harriet guessed to be an unhappy sign, so she took a step forward toward the lady with her hand held out. Something about this matron suggested to her it would be best to state her business with the minimum of flummery.

  “Good afternoon, Mrs. Spitter. Thank you for receiving us. We would like very much to talk to Gladys about her angel.”

  Mrs. Spitter’s eyebrows descended and she smiled. Harriet thought of a dragon folding its wings.

  “You are Mrs. Westerman, and that man next to whom Mr. Tompkins is bobbing about like a cor
k is Mr. Crowther, I suppose.”

  “Quite so.”

  Mrs. Spitter looked Harriet up and down with great care, then took her hand and shook it firmly. She indicated the unoccupied sofa and, as her visitors seated themselves, said, “You could wear jet with your coloring, Mrs. Westerman. Gladys, of course, could not. But I have seen redheads carry it off to great effect.”

  Harriet sensed that this remark was a sign of approval and gave her thanks, and promise to consider it with great seriousness.

  “Mr. Tompkins,” said Mrs. Spitter in a tone that suggested he had not been recommended to wear jet, “tells us you have been looking into the business in that house out back.”

  “We have. And we have some pictures to show Gladys, if she is willing to see them. We wish to know if we have caught a likeness of her angel,” Harriet replied, and looked at Crowther.

  He produced the sheets Susan had given him from his pocket and passed them to Harriet without comment, sensing that this conversation was to take place exclusively between the women. Harriet passed them to Mrs. Spitter. The lady turned to her daughter.

  “Gladys dear, attend to me.” Gladys’s attention seemed to wander a second then with a slight wobble she turned her face toward her mother and blinked at her. Mrs. Spitter patted the girl’s knee. “Now I wish you to look at these pictures and tell me if you know the people here.”

  She held the papers in front of Gladys, showing her each one in turn. Gladys appeared to be delighted to look at pictures, and examined them with interest but no apparent sign of recognition in her expression. Mrs. Spitter lowered the pages and asked, “Do you know any of these people here? I mean, have you seen any of them before? Think now, child. Answer as best you can for your mama.”

  Gladys picked through the papers in her mother’s hands and pulled one out with great care, her tongue caught between her teeth as she did so.

  “This one?” her mother asked. She was answered with a swift nod. Harriet tried to decide who was most likely to be on the page as it turned. Despite Manzerotti’s tune, she was so convinced the picture would be that of Lord Carmichael that when Mrs. Spitter turned the paper and she saw the familiar picture of Bywater, she was more disappointed than she thought she had capacity for. After a moment she looked at Gladys.

  “Gladys, may I ask you a question?”

  The young woman bobbed her head happily. Perhaps more important, Harriet caught Mrs. Spitter’s almost imperceptible nod from the corner of her eye. “Thank you. Now can you tell me when you saw this gentleman? Was it the same day that the angel took Mr. Fitzraven away?”

  Gladys bobbed her head again and then said in a perfectly fluent voice, but rather high-pitched and rushed, “It was a walk day. When I have seen both of the cats from Mrs. Pewter’s on the roof, but not together, and three birds have sat on each of the chimney pots of Mrs. Girdle’s house, that means God wishes me to walk down to the corner and back three times and pay very close attention to everything I see. Sometimes He tells me to go in the morning. Sometimes I have to wait until afternoon. God made me wait that day till it was afternoon. Five minutes past three o’clock by the big clock in the upper parlor which was my nursery but is still my room where I listen to God, and He instructs me.”

  Crowther was looking with fascination at the young woman. Mrs. Spitter was perhaps used to seeing her daughter’s eccentricities mocked. While Gladys spoke she was looking very hard at Crowther-indeed, such was the force of her gaze that the jet about her throat seemed to quiver. When her daughter paused she addressed him very fiercely.

  “Mr. Crowther, perhaps you find my daughter’s communications with the deity amusing?”

  Crowther shifted his attention to the mother, looked at her for a long moment, and blinked.

  “I rarely find anything amusing, Mrs. Spitter. I am not a religious man, but I am convinced we are all unique. If the deity wishes to communicate with us, I see no reason to suspect He would not communicate with us all in unique ways.”

  Mrs. Spitter stared a moment longer while she considered this comment, then her face and form relaxed a little and she went so far as to bestow on Mr. Crowther a faint smile. She motioned for her daughter to continue. The girl did so, plucking at the folds of her dress a little with small unconscious, regular movements.

  “As I was coming back the second time from the corner, two hack carriages and a wagon passed me by and after the wagon, that gentleman crossed over the road and I saw his face for he was looking out for further passing vehicles and he walked up ahead of me and turned to the left at the top of the road just as the butcher’s boy was coming down toward the house. I saw twenty-three horses in total without turning my head, fourteen coming toward me and nine going away, so more coming than going-so that meant God was pleased with me and I had understood His meaning, and on entering the house I might sit at the window with the picture book and turn a page every time a bird landed on Mrs. Pewter’s chimney pot until I could count fourteen candles in the windows then I might go to bed. And I did that well too, even though I had to wait a long time after my supper was taken away because I saw His angel come and take His servant away-and that is a very special gift from God.”

  Harriet tried to stop herself from looking at Gladys’s little hand plucking away at her dress. She noticed the fabric there looked a little worn. Mrs. Spitter gently laid her fingers on her daughter’s wrist. The hand was stilled at once, and the girl looked up at her mother with a grateful smile.

  “Indeed it is, Gladys,” Harriet said. “Tell me, when you went to the window with the picture book, did you see Mr. Fitzraven in his room? We think this gentleman in the drawing you have shown us was going to visit him.”

  The girl shook her head rather violently. “I did not see Mr. Fitzraven until His angel came to fetch him. He was sitting at his desk making his own picture book when God told me to go for my walk. But he was not there when God told me to come back.”

  Crowther frowned. “The corner is not far away. If you saw Mr. Bywater arriving, walked your path one more time then returned here, his visit must have been very brief.”

  Gladys looked at her hands. “If the man in the picture is Mr. Bywater then his visit lasted not more than twenty-three minutes. It does not take that time to do the walk, but I had to wait, and Mr. Bywater, if that is his picture, was one of the persons who released me.”

  Harriet leaned toward her a little. “I’m sorry, my dear?”

  “When I have finished my walk I must wait very quietly with my eyes down until three pairs of shoes have gone by in front of me. Sometimes I have to wait a long time, particularly if the weather is dirty, and sometimes when people see me waiting they walk a ways away, then I cannot see the shoes, even if I hear them, and that does not count. I was released by a lady who I did not see the face of, by Mrs. Little who is not little but very nice and always makes sure she walks where I can see her too, for I have told her about what God wishes and she always wears black shoes and white stockings not very much muddy, and by him.”

  “Are you sure it was him?” Harriet asked. “Only seeing the shoes?”

  “Yes. I had already seen his shoes and his buckles so I knew them again. Then I looked at my pocket watch and it was seventeen minutes from the moment I had to wait, to the moment he crossed past me, and that was six minutes from when I saw him first. When were you born?”

  “I was born on the eighteenth of April, Gladys.”

  “What year?”

  “Seventeen forty-eight, my dear.”

  “Thursday. A blue day. I like Thursdays.”

  Gladys turned and looked very directly at Crowther. It took him a moment to realize what was being asked of him before he said, “The twenty-seventh of July, Miss Spitter, in seventeen twenty-nine.”

  “Oh, a Sunday which is green, and the best day! Mr. Tompkins was born on a Monday which is the color of,” she pointed very carefully at the stripe on the settee on which she sat, “this.”

  “I see,” Har
riet said, somewhat amazed. She kept her voice soft. “But you do not see the angel in the pictures?”

  Again she gave a violent shake of her head. “No. None of these is His angel. But this one. .” she merrily plucked the picture of Manzerotti from the pile and pushed it toward them “. . he looks a little like His angel. And he came in earlier, before I had my supper.

  Everyone was very still. Mrs. Spitter said to her daughter, “Dear, will you tell us what you saw of this gentleman.” She tapped Manzerotti’s picture, and the jet on her fingers clicked.

  “Yes, Mama. It was between the seventh picture and the eighth. I saw that man in Mr. Fitzraven’s window. He waited by the window a second and looked down. Then he went past, then two minutes later he walked back. Then a long time after supper there was a candle lit in the room and I saw His angel pick up Mr. Fitzraven to carry him to heaven. Perhaps this gentleman was a lesser angel come to see where the great angel should come to later, for there are many sorts of angel in heaven all ready to do His will. But even if he was an angel he was not Fitzraven’s angel. God let me see Fitzraven’s angel only after the fourteenth candle was lit.”

  Crowther swallowed and said carefully, “Gladys, what do great angels wear? Do they wear bright colors? I think I would expect to see an angel in gold or silver. .”

  Gladys leaned forward very eagerly. “No, not at all. I thought His angels would be dressed in gold too, but no! His angel dresses all in brown. This color,” she added helpfully, tapping the knee of the astonished Mr. Tompkins’s breeches. “Which is also Saturday, but only the mornings.”

  Harriet turned to Crowther in astonishment. He gave a twisted smile in return. “We did not ask Mr. Crumley to draw Johannes, Mrs. Westerman.”

  Harriet was a little angry to find Crowther’s interest was as much awakened by the strange condition of Gladys Spitter as by the revelation of her angel.