3

It took some little time for Harriet and Crowther to make their way through the theater and find the offices of Mr. Harwood. The corridors were crowded with people, each making their own, very determined way in several directions. Harriet spotted a cluster of Roman maidens turning into their path. From a distance they looked as lovely as goddesses, but as they approached they coarsened. Their gold hairpieces turned to painted card, their soft white robes were in fact not entirely clean, nor securely fastened, their faces were vivid with paint. Harriet pondered as they passed the mystery of drama. At forty paces these ladies were beauteous examples of Ancient womanhood, at five they were monsters.

Sounds of a band at rehearsal drifted past the pair-the throb of a cello and the scattered bright tones of a harpsichord. A fat little man barreled toward them, almost hidden by the load of feathered skirts he carried in his arms. A boy turned a corner too fast, still shouting something over his shoulder, and collided with Crowther. The lad stumbled and let go an armful of manuscript paper with a slithering rustle; music still caught between lines on the stave pooled like water around their feet. He cursed and scrabbled them together again. Harriet bent to help him and he grinned at her boldly before dashing off again with the pages clamped to his chest. And everyone they passed seemed to find it necessary to speak, continually, and at unnecessary volume. Those who were not braying at their companions or to the air, sang. Scales and fragments of tunes fell about them in a constant clatter; a dawn chorus of competing human voices. Crowther had to draw on all his reserves not to cover his ears.

Then, when they managed to find the door to the main theater lobby and went through it, the scene became unnaturally calm. Harriet, used to being in such establishments with a great crowd, was unnerved. It was as if all the confusion they had just stumbled through had been swallowed in a single gulp. She felt as if she had fallen from a carnival into a cathedral. The place was decorated with devotion. Along the corridors they had just walked, the walls and ceilings were plain and serviceable-all unpainted plaster and the sort of lamp holders Harriet used in her kitchen or servants’ quarters, but here the doorways were slung with plaster garlands picked out in powder blue with little golden cherubs floundering happily among them; the lamps, great torches in clouded glass swirls, were held in the white hands of semi-clad goddesses who seemed to be pulling themselves free of the flat walls behind them. The carpet was crimson, thick, and flowed up the stairs toward the private boxes like a mounting wave. The ceiling showed the Muses of Dance, Song and Epic seated among the clouds, sharing the duty of holding a laurel wreath above the lobby: it circled the glass rotunda through which the weak daylight crawled. Yet with the lamps unlit, and the hubbub of the building suddenly stilled, the atmosphere was eerie rather than splendid. Harriet thought of the shadows in Justice Pither’s outhouse, and shivered. Crowther’s voice seemed oddly loud when he spoke.

“I believe this place must have shared a decorator with the former inhabitants of Berkeley Square. Ah, there.” He pointed to a door that led off the landing above them. “I believe that to be the sort of situation a manager would choose for his office, do you not agree, Mrs. Westerman?”

She nodded. “Indeed-just where he can put his head out of the door to see how the crowd is filling out.” They ascended the stairs, and all was silent but for the swish of Harriet’s skirts on the carpeted steps.

Harriet had to admit that the words “theatrical manager” had conjured a certain image in her mind. Mr. Winter Harwood seemed fashioned to destroy it. Where she had expected a character of high color who bore the signs of a life of fine food and plentiful wine, Mr. Harwood was a trim man, long-limbed, but with enough breadth in his shoulders to carry his height, clean-skinned and with pale-blue eyes; where she had expected someone who dressed in the colorful and ornate style of the building he managed, Mr. Harwood was simply dressed in a close-fitting dark-blue coat and fawn breeches; his waistcoat was free of fobs or chains, and his wig made none of the slightly hysterical claims to originality that seemed to be the current fashion. He dressed like Graves, in fact, and where she had suspected a manner slightly overenthused, highly sensible, innately dramatic, Mr. Harwood showed himself, on hearing their news, to be a master of understatement and emotional control.

“Fitzraven is dead, you say? Thank you for the information.”

His desk, Harriet noticed, was too tidy. Mr. Harwood’s writing equipment was laid out in front of him as if it had been placed there with the aid of a set square and ruler. To his right sat a neat pile of letters, unopened. To his left, several sheets smoothed out flat and others folded and ready, it seemed, for the penny post. Having spoken, he took another letter from the pile to his right and broke the seal on it. Then glanced up again at his visitors, as if surprised to find them still there.

“Is there anything further?”

Crowther spoke. “The rope that bound his legs together came from this house. We intend to seek his murderer here. If you know anything that would expedite that search, it would be good of you to reveal it, and save us both some inconvenience.”

Mr. Harwood sighed, and put down his letter very carefully.

“I doubt I can be of much assistance. The rope came from here, did it? You are sure?” Crowther simply nodded. “How unfortunate.” There was a long pause. Harriet was, she knew, appallingly bad at letting such silences stretch. Her impulse was always to leap into the conversational fray, to charm and chatter those with whom she talked into confidence, but she had learned from Crowther the power of stillness.

Mr. Harwood looked at them sharply and eventually continued: “I am glad murder is still so rare a thing, even in these fallen days, but we have enough experience of it to know that unless the perpetrator is found with the knife in his hand, or makes the mistake of mentioning his guilt in public, it is unlikely he will ever be found. Is that not the case?” Again, neither Harriet nor Crowther replied. Mr. Harwood frowned. “What use then to tell stories, and force people into slandering their neighbors and colleagues with suspicion? Are there not other amusements in Town sufficient for you?”

Harwood got to his feet and moved to look out of his window into the street outside, linking his hands together behind his back. Harriet could hear the scrape of iron wheels on stone, the shouts of the chair carriers.

“I know your names, of course. Do I assume you are once again-now how did that rather colorful pamphlet last autumn put it? — ‘taking up the flaming sword of truth on behalf of your king?’” Harwood turned to look at them over his shoulder, one eyebrow raised. “Well, I wish you could choose a more noble object for your crusade. Nathaniel Fitzraven was a rather poisonous little man, though he was a good musician in his time. Why make his sordid little life your subject? I doubt he has any hidden heir or suffering children for you to save.” He moved away from the window, and with a gentle nod, continued, “Do you know, one of my colleagues was offered a one-act interpretation of your adventures last summer for the public stage? Were it not for the fact a rather neat little comedy called The Coffee-Shop became available, you would have had a run in Drury Lane.”

His lip curled a little, whether at herself and Crowther, or at the quality of the drama about them, Harriet could not say. She was annoyed to feel herself blush; she would have given a great deal to hide her discomfort. When Crowther spoke, however, his voice showed no sign of embarrassment or awkwardness. His tone was as dry as Mr. Harwood’s and his words more distinct and glassy. She did not need to look at him to know that his right eyebrow was raised and he was examining the manager along the line of his thin nose.

“Unlike yourself, Mr. Harwood, I cannot dictate the manner in which the populace chooses to entertain itself. It is not my concern. Mrs. Westerman and I were asked by a magistrate trying to do his duty, a Mr. Pither in Great Suffolk Street, to examine a body. The body, we discovered, was that of Mr. Fitzraven. He was not the victim of some casual robbery, or public confrontation. He was throttled, then some hours later his body was tied and thrown in the river in an attempt, I believe, to conceal the crime and rob him of a proper burial.” Harriet found her discomfort gone and began to enjoy herself as Crowther spoke on: “If he had friends capable and willing to search out his killers, I would gladly hand over those duties to them. It seems he did not, and if Mrs. Westerman and I can discover a murderer, and prevent him from killing again, then we shall do so. Pamphlets, stage plays, orphans and heirs. . these are irrelevant.”

Harwood looked at them both with attention as Crowther finished, then having taken his seat again spread his hands wide on the table.

“Very well.” He closed his eyes for a moment then pinched the bridge of his nose with his right hand before going on. “I will tell you what I can of Fitzraven, though I would request you make no further enquiries in this house today, at least, whatever your suspicions. These people must entertain their Sovereign tonight and nerves are stretched. I do not ask this lightly.” He looked up at them, Harriet met Crowther’s eye then turned back to give Harwood a slight nod. The manager spoke through clenched teeth. “I will speak to everyone after the performance and give them your names. Mrs. Service has a box, of course, and her company are normally invited to the Green Room, but. .”

“Mr. Crowther and I have no plans to attend the opera tonight,” Harriet said calmly.

“Good. Fitzraven was an irritant, but useful at times. He was keen to continue his association with the Opera House after we ceased to ask him to play, so I employed him to supervise the copying of parts and run errands. There are two boys we employ during the season who do much the same work, and for much the same pay, but since Fitzraven dressed in a frock coat and talked like a gentleman, mostly, many assumed his responsibilities were more extensive than they were.”

Harriet lifted her chin and now comfortably meeting his gaze, said, “Yet we are told that this summer you placed considerable trust in him. Did you not send him to Milan to recruit for the current season? Why, if you were doubtful of him, did you do such a thing?”

Harwood settled back in his chair and seemed to lose himself in contemplation of the far corner of his office. The decoration in this room seemed to find a mean between the plain functionality of the backstage rooms and the gaudy extravagances of the lobby. The decoration was present, but polite. Three or four portraits in heavy gilt frames formed the main interest of the room. They were all of solid gentlemen, richly dressed-the former Managers of the Opera House, if the little plaques under the frames were to be believed. They looked down on their successor with a weary disdain and intense self-satisfaction.

“I did. It was a risk, but the prize offered was well worth reaching for. I have been attempting via my agents abroad to persuade Miss Marin to come to London each season since I took over management of His Majesty’s. I heard her sing in Paris four years ago and was astonished. I expect all London to be astonished now. However, she was always snatched away from me by another, richer employment elsewhere on the continent, and I fear my voice was only one among many. Then, in the spring, Fitzraven came to me and said he was in private correspondence with the lady, and believed he could persuade her to come for this season if I agreed to let him act as the agent of the theater in Italy over the summer.”

“And you trusted him?” asked Harriet.

Harwood shook his head. “No. But he showed me parts of a letter from the lady to himself that seemed warm in its tones and asked him to visit her. I admit I was surprised at his success in eliciting the invitation, but he had managed it and I thought it was worth the risk to send him. I limited his expenses and gave him no great latitude in his negotiations. We have good friends among the bankers of Florence and Milan, and I did not believe they would allow him to damage us with extravagant fees. To this point I have had no reason to regret my decision. Miss Marin is here. I have heard great things spoken of Manzerotti: several influential judges of music told me of his talents, and from what I have heard of his voice, those praises have been justified. Some of the other singers I think may have been selected by Fitzraven more for their ability to put money into his pocket than their skills, but they are. .” he shrugged “. . competent.”

“And how did Fitzraven enter into this correspondence?” Crowther asked.

Harwood lifted his palms. “I cannot tell you, Mr. Crowther. I heard a story once that the fair Miss Byrne was so moved by correspondence she received from one music lover, it was all her friends could do to prevent her from eloping with the gentleman, sight unseen. I believe he turned out to be the son of a button maker and still in the schoolroom. Perhaps Fitzraven had a similarly convincing epistolary style.”

Crowther frowned. “Did Fitzraven have a talent with the pen?”

Harwood shifted in his seat. “He did, from time to time, send paragraphs to the newspapers in praise of the productions here, or to alert the public of the personages about to appear. Much as your friend Graves did before his sudden change in circumstance.”

“Graves, I believe, was never in the pay of those about whom he wrote,” Harriet said.

“Indeed, Mrs. Westerman,” Harwood replied, studying the ceiling. “To our cost and his own, Graves always insisted on his independence.”

There was a light tap on the door; a servant leaned into the room just far enough to nod at Harwood, then withdrew. “You must excuse me now, however. I am called to see this wondrous duet that closes Act Two. Everyone who has heard it swears it will get half a dozen encores.” Harwood rose, then said as an afterthought, “Come with me. It is a public rehearsal and I shall watch from the King’s Box. I also hear that Mr. Johannes, our master of stage mechanics, has come up with some piece of trickery that will astound me, and you may have sight of the artistes of whom we were just speaking.”

Harriet and Crowther rose with him. As she moved aside to let him lead the way out of the room, Harriet remarked lightly, “I have always been astonished at the marvels the stage can contain. All those descending angels, mountain ranges a man can climb and so on.”

Harwood bowed a little. “It is part of the spectacular-though we have had our failures. Some years ago I was convinced into releasing live birds during one scene. The effect was brief, and the inconvenience considerable. The coronation scene that followed did not benefit from one of the chorus getting a sparrow caught up in her headgear.”

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