Anatomy of Murder caw-2

by Imogen Robertson

  Johannes bowed his head and submitted; his great grief seemed to rise from the center of the earth, poured up his body through his throat and out into the world. It was a wave of silence, taking whatever was left of his voice with it. He never opened his lips to sing again.

  Mrs. Service rapped lightly at the door and went in.

  “Mrs. Bligh, a young man called Ripley just called. He said you and Crowther should attend at the place thought of. Do I have the message right?”

  Jocasta swept up her cards and pocketed them. Crowther shrugged on his frock coat and smoothed the sleeves.

  “Aye, Mrs. Service. You have it right.”

  When the audience heard the introduction to the “Yellow Rose Duet” they called and wept afresh. The leader of the band stood and put his violin to his chin, and as Manzerotti gracefully stepped aside and offered him up to the audience, he began to play Isabella’s part. From the back of the stalls Mr. Harwood observed his theater. It was a world of light; the oil lamps blazed above him and cast down across the gilt moldings on the boxes, across the jewels and dresses of the women and threw their shimmerings to and fro like fireworks, blessed by the colors around them.

  It was a woman in one of the boxes closest to the stage who began it. With trembling fingers she undid the yellow rose from her bodice and threw it down onto the stage at Manzerotti’s feet. Then, from the box opposite, another woman in red silk did the same. Soon the theater was alive with the rustle of foliage and paper, and the roses began to flow forward. Those who could not reach the stage dropped their flowers into the stalls, and they were passed forward and overhead till those nearest the footlights could gather them in armfuls and, passing them over the heads of the musicians in the pit, lay them with the other tribute.

  Manzerotti began to sing his line, stepping forward so the petals made a carpet for the jeweled heels of his shoes to rest on. That clarion call of his voice. . it seemed to Harwood that the song of duty and loyalty was not simply the voice of a single man, but the spirit of all he loved about the opera sculpted into sound. He knew he was an illusionist and a businessman, knew better than any the petty betrayals and rivalries, the viciousness of ambition and ambition thwarted that lay behind the music and the golden stage; knew too his house was full because his audience came to see where blood had been shed, and try and imagine they could see the stains, but for a moment he let his spirit rest on the glories of Manzerotti’s voice and forgot that anything else had ever existed in time but music and light.

  Lord Sandwich watched Carmichael across the auditorium. He was observing the stage with such profound satisfaction one could believe Manzerotti was his man, not his master. Lord Sandwich was not a man easily shocked, but the story Mr. Palmer had laid out for him that morning in his office at the Admiralty had shaken him. Worst was the note he had received telling him that Carmichael’s stepson Longley had been killed attempting to flee the King’s Messenger sent to stop him at Harwich. He had panicked and been trampled to death by a startled horse on the main thoroughfare of that town. They had hoped to turn him. Give him a chance to redeem himself in their service, but on being approached, the child had only thought of the executioner’s noose and knife, and was dead before Palmer’s letter could be put into his hand.

  And there sat Carmichael in his box as assured and comfortable as a cat on silk. Sandwich crushed in his hand the note received from Mr. Palmer’s man. It was a singular pleasure to be about this business himself. The First Lord then bent over the delicate white palm of the lady with whom he was seated and with a smile left her to flirt with her fan alone for a little while. He closed the door to the box behind him and began to walk the corridor around to the other side of the auditorium, nodding to a man waiting there as he went.

  Johannes was becoming dizzy from the pain in his leg. A black-skinned boy appeared from the shadows behind him. Johannes looked about him. The braziers were lit, but the filth-floored roadway was deserted. There had been people here before.

  The boy, when he spoke, did so with the soft-water French accent of a Creole. “All alone, Tonton? Do you need a place? I’ll show you somewhere warm.” Johannes gritted his teeth and nodded. The boy took him by the hand and began to lead him forward through the leaping shadows, the flames thrown up on either side. The whistle again. Another laugh.

  The door to Carmichael’s box opened, and he twisted around in his chair. Seeing the First Lord of the Admiralty enter he started to stand, but Sandwich placed one hand on his shoulder.

  “No, no, Carmichael. Do not get up.” He took a seat next to him and whispered to Carmichael’s heavily rouged companion, “My dear, I have confidential business with this man. Would you be so kind?” She gave him a bold look, then smiled and cocked her head so the jewels about her handsome throat glimmered. She made her way out into the corridor. Sandwich watched her go with an appreciative eye.

  “Carmichael, I congratulate you. I had no idea you could afford a whore that fine.” Then Sandwich leaned into him, murmuring, “Tell me, does she fuck your friends for tidbits useful to the French, or is she pure recreation?”

  Carmichael’s arm spasmed and he tried to stand, but Sandwich had him firmly pressed to his chair. He continued in his pleasant whisper.

  “No, no, my dear. Do not attempt to leave. Do you not wish to answer? No matter, we shall ask her ourselves.” Again Carmichael made an effort to stand; again he was forced down. “Really, Carmichael, be still. There is a gentleman outside the door to whom I have paid a large sum of money for his assurance that he will shoot you if you try to leave. And I think Harwood has had enough blood spilled in his theater in the past few days. Shortly we shall return to your house to discuss matters more fully, but for now, stay still. Enjoy the end of the aria. It will be the last music you ever hear, you know. He sings prettily, does he not?”

  “Yes.”

  “How it must have burned, to have him sent here to take control of your activities. A half-man like that, a performer. Yet he would never have tried to use your stepson to carry messages. I am sure that was your plan, and not approved. Longley was too young, too honorable; even given his debt to you and fear of you, he was bound to be too open in his ways. Manzerotti did far better with the woman who sells coffee and oranges here, and that runt Fitzraven. Did you even notice that Longley told Mrs. Westerman he was going to Harwich? You were too busy flaunting your power. Your wish to see others dance to your tune has made you a bad spy, Carmichael, and the boy is dead with some of your papers still on him. All that chatter about corruption in the Admiralty, and who in London supports the rebel cause. You did well there, I admit.”

  He watched Lord Carmichael’s face for any reaction. The man did not move, but he looked as if some light had disappeared from under his skin.

  “What will happen to my collection, Sandwich?” he said finally as on stage Manzerotti extended his arms to the painted skies.

  “We could arrange for it to be donated to the British Museum. Anonymously, of course. In a month, Lord Carmichael, it will be as if you never existed at all.”

  “This way, Tonton,” the boy said, and led him up the last few steps to the attic. “You shall be taken care of here.”

  Johannes could barely see, but if it was the pain or the gloom of the place, he could not tell. He guided himself up the stairs leaning his palm on the plaster walls. The love he had given to Manzerotti was the greatest glory of his life. His own talents with the trickeries and artistry of the scene room were insignificant to him, their only merit being that they allowed him to travel at Manzerotti’s side and do his bidding. Manzerotti traded government to government across Europe, charmed them into thinking him their own creature, but never loyal to anything other than his music and himself.

  There had been a hard time in Paris three years ago, when Johannes had found himself cornered and alone. He had managed to get a message to Manzerotti, but no help had come. Three days later, having freed himself and left a cellar gory by his escape, he h
ad made his way to Manzerotti’s rooms and fallen at his feet, asking to know why he had been forsaken. Manzerotti had paused in his practice only long enough to look at him, but had made no response and recommenced his work. After an hour Johannes had crawled away and presented himself at the proper time the following day. Manzerotti had greeted him as usual and the matter was never spoken of again. His belief was that he had been tested and succeeded.

  Johannes thought of the moment when he had looked up at the Christ hanging above him in the church, sad and sorry. He had realized that he had been punished for his pride, that his role in loving God was not to sing His praises but to serve His true instrument-the boy with the black eyes. The sense of complete submission filled his heart and seemed to burst it open. His love poured from the cracked vessel of his soul in a flood. It was joy, freedom, a certainty that had never left him again.

  The Creole boy pushed the door open in front of him. Johannes saw a shadowy attic; at a stove in its center an obscenely fat women was staring at something in a pan. Johannes’s fear suddenly screamed through him as she turned his way. He spun around to flee but found his passage blocked. Two boys and two men had followed them silently up the stairs. One raised a rough wooden truncheon and brought it down behind his ear. He fell to the ground.

  The bravos were hysterical. As Sandwich helped Carmichael to his feet, feeling the man trembling under his coat, he looked down onto the stage. Manzerotti was bowing deeply, but lifted his head and looked directly into Sandwich’s eyes. The earl did not acknowledge the look but pushed Carmichael angrily out of the box and through the empty corridor and lobby while the ecstatic yells of the crowd still echoed behind them. He paused by the man outside.

  “The woman?”

  “We have Mrs. Mitchell, my lord.”

  “And Manzerotti?”

  “It is all arranged as you requested, sir.”

  “Good. I am taking Lord Carmichael home.”

  Johannes awoke to find himself bound to a greasy chair. The room was full of people. He hissed at them, and one or two of the ragged boys stepped back. He picked out the witch woman and the last of her little rats. By her side stood a tall man, dressed like a gentleman. He recognized him as the one who had caught hold of his leg the previous night. He was pleased to see an ugly bruise gilding his throat.

  “Let me go.” The voice was between a hiss and a croak. “Let me go, and I will not hunt each and every one of you down. You do not know with what you meddle, you filth.”

  Crowther stepped forward and slapped the man across his face with enough force to swing his head around.

  “Oh yes, we do, Johannes. Carmichael, Mitchell, his friends, Manzerotti-all are taken.”

  Johannes laughed and shook his head. “You will never touch my master. He is beyond you.” His eyes were bright, exultant.

  Crowther said calmly, “If he escapes tonight, he will be taken tomorrow. He has nowhere to hide.”

  Johannes’s eye was beginning to swell. “He does not need to hide!”

  Crowther hit him again, and drew a gasp. The fat woman nodded her head in approval.

  “Where are the two boys buried, Johannes?”

  Johannes tasted the blood in his mouth. “In the tenter grounds where they stretch cloth off Holborn, unless the rats have eaten them already.”

  Crowther struck him again. Then began to pull on his gloves. A voice or two in the crowd murmured; they began to creep forward. A woman in rags spat at the seated figure. Her yellow bile crawled down his face. A man balled his fists. Johannes looked around.

  “You leave me here?”

  Crowther felt the comfortable stretch of leather over his knuckles. “Yes, I do.” He turned to the fat woman. “You know where to take the body. Make sure it is before dawn.” She nodded and Crowther looked toward the prisoner again.

  “Why, Johannes? You have renown, money of your own. Why do you serve as Manzerotti’s knife man?”

  A look of bliss crossed Johannes’s bloody and bruised face. He looked up at the ceiling as if transfixed by some vision of ecstasy, some untouchable joy.

  “I had to serve him. He is my voice.”

  Crowther did not look around again, though he sensed Jocasta and Sam following him down the stairs. As they paused on the road, from the top of the house they heard the sound of blows, and a muffled sobbing scream.

  They hastened in silence to the outer limits of the rookery, where the carriage of the Earl of Sussex stood waiting for them. Jocasta sniffed, recognizing The Chariot again, and nodded to herself, seeing the right and the pattern of it.

  “We’ll walk from here, Mr. Crowther. My sorrows and blessings to Mrs. Westerman.”

  The footman leaped down from his perch and opened the door. Crowther began to climb into the carriage, then stopped and turned toward her.

  “I shall come and ask you of your childhood memories, Mrs. Bligh, when this is done and the grieving passed. I thank you for offering them to me.”

  “They’ll do you as much hurt as good. But such is the way of the world.” She let her hand rest on Sam’s shoulder and Crowther took his seat. The footman closed the door on him and fitted the latch. “You know where to find me, Mr. Crowther. Me and Sam.”

  He tipped his hat to her and struck his cane on the roof. The coachman stirred his horses into movement and the carriage rattled off into the deserted streets.

  “What’s that, Mrs. Bligh?” Sam asked.

  “Old wounds that still bleed, lad. But that is for another time. Let us to our own sleepings now.”

  Lord Sandwich and Mr. Palmer put the matter very clearly to their reluctant host. Once Carmichael had understood, he was frank with them and explained every part of the business quite thoroughly. He had indeed communicated with the French from time to time and been rewarded for it. At first it was simply for the pleasure of seeing great and influential men listen to him with care and praise, then the habits of subterfuge had become part of him, and he thirsted for the risk of it. He had met Manzerotti in the distant past, but knew of him only as a talented singer until Fitzraven had arrived and presented himself with the letter from Paris and instructions to take Manzerotti into his home and confidence. Fitzraven had been all but drooling when he told Carmichael that Manzerotti had suggested the construction of some hiding places in his home. He had resented the intrusion, but realizing he had little choice, acquiesced.

  From the moment Manzerotti arrived, Carmichael was forced to admit he was a master spy and recognize that he himself had only been a dilettante till now. Manzerotti had seen something in the hard features of the woman who ran the coffee room in His Majesty’s and found out her son was an Admiralty clerk. He had then made Johannes his go-between, and soon Carmichael’s hiding places were overflowing with material for France. His public snubbing of Fitzraven went hand in hand with private confidence. He had encouraged the man to try and whore his own daughter for information, and sympathized with his annoyance over their estrangement and her partiality for Bywater. When he found Fitzraven dead he had emptied the room of anything he thought incriminating and summoned Johannes.

  Manzerotti’s reasons for ordering the murders of Bywater and then Marin were much as Crowther and Harriet had speculated. He saw the chance to put an end to their investigations before Bywater confessed and the question of how the body ended up in the river grew pressing, then when he heard of Miss Marin’s note he saw the chance to neaten matters still further. Carmichael told them that he only heard of Harriet’s connection to the Marquis de La Fayette at his party, from Sandwich’s own mouth. He was aware of who had been on the ship, but not the name of the captain who had taken the prize, and when he heard Harriet speak shortly afterward of her husband’s returning memory and his talk of spies, he had decided to take action.

  Carmichael’s words were written out for him by a trembling clerk, and his signature was made and witnessed while Palmer wondered if it was possible to conceal this last from Harriet. The clerk then left the room
and a few moments later so did Sandwich and Mr. Palmer. The latter turned the key in the lock and they made their way down the stairs in silence, pausing only briefly when the report of a pistol shot rang out from behind the closed door.

  “I know you would wish a trial, Palmer. You are young enough to look for justice. But it is better so,” Sandwich said.

  “My lord,” was all Palmer had by way of answer.

  Crowther spoke briefly to Graves in the hallway when he returned to Trevelyan’s house, and to Rachel and Clode in the parlor where they rocked baby Anne in the firelight, before letting himself quietly into the room where Harriet sat vigil by the body of her husband. She looked up as he entered. She held her sleeping son on her lap. Her face was calm, tearstained, still. He came into the center of the room and placed his cane on the ground before him, resting his weight on it with sudden realization of his own exhaustion.

  “It is done, Harriet.”

  “He is dead?”

  “Yes. They beat him to death, and the surgeons will have use of his body. Manzerotti, I am grieved to tell you, escaped.”

  She stroked the head of her sleeping child and kissed his white brow. “I know. Graves has told me.” Crowther watched her for a second longer, then with a sigh turned back toward the door. His fingers were on the handle, still wrapped in black leather, when he heard her speak again.