Anatomy of Murder

8

Mrs. Westerman had been oddly subdued on their journey back to Berkeley Square, and had retired to her room as soon as the household had dined, complaining of a headache. Crowther shut himself in the library in an ill humor and wondered briefly if she had been thinking of her husband again.

Mrs. Westerman was very rarely ill, but since her husband had returned she had suffered headaches with greater frequency. It irritated Crowther that she was now unavailable at times when he wished for her company, and he hoped that as her husband’s health improved, her own would do the same. Her indisposition was not the only reason for his souring mood, however. The discovery that Fitzraven had been strangled rather than drowned had been a professional disappointment. It would have been of interest to add to the literature on the state of a body after drowning, to see if the pink foam in the throat he had observed in some animal experiments was present, for example, but a throttling was ordinary. Equally, an active investigation into a death ran counter to his habits of solitary study. It put him out among people far more than he liked, or was used to. However, he had agreed to help Mr. Palmer and serve his king, so with a slight growl in his own throat he went to work composing and sending a large number of notes, then awaiting their replies in the comfort of the library. Thus he avoided at least the perils of conversation for some hours. If he realized the inconvenience he caused in Graves’s household by sending off its staff to several corners of the city bearing his requests, he gave no sign of it. He had enough left of those habits of command that he had developed in his youth to ignore completely what it did not suit him to see, and his rather brittle mood made him even less likely to consider the convenience of others than usual.

His activities caused enough upset in the house for the housekeeper, Mrs. Martin, to be more than a little shocked when she came back from her half-day and found her domain downstairs to be in nothing like its usual order.

“It’s no good frowning at me, Mrs. Martin,” said the cook over her shoulder as she tried to assemble a nursery tea in a battlefield of unwashed crockery and the wreckage from the preparation and serving of dinner. “Mr. Crowther’s been sending ’em out one after the other since we cleared table, and you know what they’re like. They’re all, ‘Ooh, we’re helping solve a murder, Cook!’ as if they are heroes and heroines in a storybook. Alice and Cecily sent themselves into hysterics imagining they might be carrying a letter of accusation to the killer himself, but when I told them they should wait till Philip or Gregory got back and let them do the carrying of notes, if they were that nervous, they looked daggers at me and rushed out of the place so fast they hardly had time to fasten their cloaks.”

She pulled open the bread drawer and began to attack the loaf she found there with a sharp knife. She was an experienced cutter, but Crowther might have questioned the delicacy of her movements. “I’m sorry this Mr. Fitzraven fellow is dead, but I wish he had just got stupid drunk and fallen in the river like a decent man. I have no idea what I am feeding those little kiddies with this evening, and if Mr. Graves and Mrs. Service want to give supper to their guests tonight, we’ll have to send to the chophouse. There’s not a clean pan left to roast in anywhere in the kitchen, and Mary should have been mending this evening, not setting fires.”

Mrs. Martin did not reply, but put on her apron. The vigor with which she began to scrub the half-empty dishes was eloquent enough. She had been very pleased to gain her position at Berkeley Square, since she was still rather young to have such responsibility, and most would have thought her a little delicate in her appearance for such a role. However, Graves had liked her, Mrs. Service was pleased with her references, and her generous pay meant her only child could be comfortably boarded in Putney. Yet things had changed. The household she presided over was now twice the size it had been, and up and down the streets around Berkeley Square the talk was all Mrs. Westerman and Crowther and murder. Biting her lip, she picked up another dish, which, albeit very elegant, seemed designed only to catch brown scraps of gravy in its corners and nurse them.

The young people’s tea was a great success, fortunately, and Lord Thornleigh, his sister and their friends spent much of it in debate trying to think what good deed they had done to deserve their bread and butter being cut so thick.

Crowther had been lucky in Graves’s choice of servants. Each one of his messengers returned with communications, written and verbal, for which he thanked them sincerely. They then resumed their duties with a certain energy-enough to make Mrs. Service remark when she put her head around the door that Crowther had managed to do them all a power of good. He had looked at her with surprise. She did not try to explain, but withdrew to go about her own business and that of the children with a smile of her own.

When Harriet found him out as the evening deepened and the candles settled coins of light around them, he was seated behind Graves’s desk with a number of pieces of paper arrayed about him, a frown of concentration on his face.

“I forgot to tell you,” she said. “I heard from Daniel Clode yesterday. Things seem to go well without us in Sussex. I left Graves with his head bent over the new plans for the works at Thornleigh, I have seen the accounts after the harvest at Caveley, and Michaels sends us his regards.”

Crowther nodded but did not reply. She walked up to the desk and peered at the sheets in front of him, trying to read his thin high script upside down. “But what have you been about this afternoon, Crowther? You seem to have spilled a quantity of ink. To what purpose?”

Her tone rankled, and he punished her for it by making her wait while he gathered his papers and tapped them straight before he replied.

“It has been spilled usefully, I think. We shall call on Mr. Manzerotti tomorrow morning. It appears he is in residence at Lord Carmichael’s.”

“Is he, indeed? How interesting! I wonder how that came to pass.”

Crowther answered with a drawl. “Lord Carmichael has traveled extensively on the continent and has a reputation as a music lover. I would not be surprised if he made Manzerotti’s acquaintance there. Whoever gave Fitzraven an introduction to Carmichael was probably also someone he knew from his time there.” Harriet looked as if she were about to ask something further, but Crowther continued: “And later in the day I have an appointment to meet Mr. Bywater at the British Museum.”

Harriet raised her eyebrows. “Why there?”

“Apparently Bywater has tickets for admittance and hopes I might enjoy looking at old pots.”

She sighed and took a seat in front of the fire, settling deeply into the armchair like a child. “I cannot imagine he phrased it so.”

“He did not, but his own rather florid rhetoric drives me toward the demotic.”

“And how am I to spend my time, pray, while you are admiring the antiquities?”

Crowther did not look at her when he replied, “If your health allows it, madam, Lord Carmichael will be at the Foundling Hospital between the middle of the day and when he returns home to dine. He would be happy to have some conversation with you then.” She was silent and he knew she would be looking at him now, concerned and seeking.

“I have never seen you scared of meeting another man, Crowther.”

“It is not fear, Mrs. Westerman,” he said, with a slight snap of annoyance. He could hear the tap of her fingers against the cloth of her satin sleeves; it was a sound like rain on canvas.

“Did that man have some involvement in your father’s murder?” she asked finally.

He was conscious of relief that he had not needed to be more direct with her, and gratitude that she knew him well enough to reach this conclusion so swiftly, but more than anything he was aware of the regularity with which the past kept reaching forward across a passage of thirty years and placing its cold, wet palms on his throat.

“The motive for my father’s murder by my brother was financial, Mrs. Westerman. He was not well-disciplined; had run through his allowance and collected a large number of debts. My father was not the sort of man to be forgiving in such situations.”

Harriet did not respond. He knew she was allowing him to speak in his own time, and could not decide in the strange mist of emotion his memories dragged through him, if he was pleased or a little humiliated by her unusual tact.

“Lord Carmichael was a friend of my brother’s-or so my brother thought,” he continued. “The man was poor then himself, but used my brother’s money to fund his own debauches and then led him into a way of life that destroyed him. I would say that, more than any other man, he is responsible for the deaths in my family. He since married money. That is the source of his current wealth though his wife died some years ago.”

He ran his fingers down the edges of his papers, though they were already straight. “He also let it be known in town he could have seduced my sister out of the schoolroom, and would have done had he not been persuaded there was no immediate profit in it.”

There was a rustle of fabric on leather as Mrs. Westerman drew herself straight.

“You have a sister, Crowther? Is she living?”

He looked up to see her staring at him, her lips slightly parted and a blush of surprise on her face.

“I do. She is. She married a gentleman from Austria and has lived abroad since my father’s death.”

“Crowther,” Harriet sighed, “you never fail to astonish. You, who know so much of all of my household, announce that you have a sister-and seem to think it strange I am amazed by the revelation.” She paused, and the firelight caught the red in her hair. “Though why I should be surprised, I do not know. After all, you have never even told me your brother’s name.”

Crowther dropped his gaze back to the tabletop. “It was Adair. Lucius Adair, more formally, but my mother only ever called him Addie. My sister has a son, but lives apart from her husband. I have never had a wife or children. Is that biography sufficient to you?”

“Adair. Is that not an Irish name?”

“It is. My mother was Irish.”

She was quiet again, and Crowther looked sideways at her profile, trying to see if she were angry with him. She seemed only calm and thoughtful, however.

“I can understand why you might think it more politic for me to meet with Carmichael alone, but do you not fear encountering him when we see Manzerotti?”

“My lord expects to be at cards all night, and will not rise till he must to travel to the Foundling Hospital.”

Harriet slumped again in her chair, and with the appearance of brisk good humor, said, “You have our itinerary for the day mapped out. I thank you. Any other information gained?”

Crowther felt some muscle around his throat relax and began to speak more easily. The memory of the lightness Miss Marin had achieved with her narrative passed like a breeze through his mind.

“The main points are these,” he said. “Mr. Fitzraven’s last employment at His Majesty’s Theatre was supervising the copying of parts for the band for the new duet on Wednesday afternoon, as we know. He was seen about the opera house on Thursday morning. Mrs. Girdle was visiting her sister in Clapham on Thursday, so when he returned to his lodgings, and for what purpose, we cannot say.”

“Anything further?”

Crowther cleared his throat. “I have the correct and relevant information as to the movement of the tides on the Thames. It is likely the body was weighted and thrown into the river at high tide, and that would be roughly halfway between midnight and dawn on Saturday, according to the boatmen at Westminster.”

Harriet leaned forward and put her chin in her hands. “So where are we at, Crowther? Here is Fitzraven, a deeply unpleasant character, possibly a traitor, who abandoned his daughter then found her again when there was profit in it; who has managed, we know not how, to continue his employment at His Majesty’s Theatre despite being disliked there, and insinuate his way into the graces of a peer.” She glanced up at Crowther, then back to the fire with a smile. “You must resist the temptation to sneer whenever Lord Carmichael is mentioned, Crowther. It does not become you. We also believe that he spent some time in Paris, collecting teeth and Lord knows what else, when he was supposed to be only in Milan, that he loved the opera for all the wrong reasons, and suggested to people he knew its secrets. We know too that he had more money in his pocket since the performers arrived in London, though Miss Marin says she did not give him that, and someone has recently found it convenient to throttle him. Have I everything clear so far?”

Crowther leaned back in his own chair. “You do, madam. Though I have one more fact and one more conjecture to offer you.”

“You proffer them like sweetmeats to a baby. Say on, sir.”

“The main performers of the serious opera arrived three weeks ago; the players of the comic opera and the ballet master arrived only earlier this week, so it seems unlikely that any of them paid Fitzraven, though he may in that time have given them reason to throttle him. .”

Harriet nodded. “And your conjecture?”

“I was thinking again of the papers in Fitzraven’s bedchamber. The letters from Isabella were well-concealed: we would not have thought to examine the case but for your moment of musical whimsy, but there were no others. He must have had other correspondence, yet no sign of it remained, nor were there any records of his income, which, given that he was so careful to note his expenses, seems unusual.”

Harriet frowned. “You are suggesting, I think, that someone other than Fitzraven. .”

“I am wondering, Mrs. Westerman, if we were not the first to search Fitzraven’s room, and what those missing letters might have contained.”

As Harriet sprang to her feet again, Crowther wondered vaguely if she had ever managed to keep her seat for more than ten minutes at a time.

“It would certainly explain the lack of ready money, or any note of where Fitzraven’s newfound wealth came from,” she said. “And it would seem to suggest that my liking of Miss Marin is well-founded. She would not have left her own letters there and removed his pocketbook, only to return for them later. Perhaps Mr. Tompkins from the rooms below will be better able to tell us of the comings and goings in the house.”

She turned to him and smiled. He thought perhaps her looks were beginning to improve a little.

“But I must visit the children. I hear the day has been full of spectacular military victories and Anne has learned to say ‘cake.’ I am the mother of prodigies.”

Crowther expected her to leave at once, but instead she paused and with an unusual hesitation in her manner turned back to him. He placed his papers flat on the desk and gave her his full attention.

“Crowther, Dr. Trevelyan has suggested I take the children to see James, and I am afraid.”

He folded his fingers together. “Your son is a thinking child, Mrs. Westerman. Be open with him.”

“But if James. .” Harriet halted and drew breath before continuing. “If James does not recover, will not Stephen then always remember his father as he is now?”

Crowther considered before he spoke. “Dr. Trevelyan is a good man. Follow his recommendation. As for Stephen, he will grow up with the portrait of the captain at Caveley and the testimony of your household and yourself to temper whatever impressions he gains now. He must know it is a thing that can be spoken of.”

Harriet thanked him and left the room with her brow furrowed. Crowther drew out his pocket watch and tapped the glass gently. Now he would have to sup here and wait for Mr. Tompkins to appear. He thought of the desk in his study in Hartswood where the maids were not so flighty and the air clearer, and with a spasm of irritation cursed his king and the Navy and most especially Mr. Nathaniel Fitzraven.

The door to the roundhouse opened and Sam started up from the shadows like a pointer-bitch spotting game. Jocasta shuffled out with Boyo in her arms. The constable had some words with those left inside and pushed the door to again, making it fast with a flick of his wrist. Sam watched as Jocasta put something in the man’s hands and heard the clink of coin. He waited till the constable had turned his back again and picked up his pipe before he slipped into step beside her.

“Youse all right, Mrs. Bligh?”

She jumped at the sound of his voice. “You here, are you? Yes, lad. I’m all right.” She bent down and set Boyo on the ground beside them, stretching her back like an old woman as she stood again.

“They’re not sending you up before the justice, then?”

“No, Sam. I came to an arrangement with the constable.” She spat the last word out and set off again. The little boy bobbed at her side.

“Was it true, what you said?”

“It was.”

“That Milky Boy and that sour mother of his killed that pretty lady?”

“I’ve just said so, haven’t I?”

“They got awful angry with you.”

Jocasta didn’t see any need to reply, so after a moment Sam tried again.

“What are you going to do, Mrs. Bligh? No one believes you, do they? I mean, no one that matters anyway.”

Jocasta straightened her back, and her pace became more assured. Sam had to scurry a little to keep up.

“Neither they do, boy. But then they think my cards are nothing but fairy tales, and I’ve got nothing but a scrap of paper with four words on it otherwise.”

“You ain’t going to let it lie though, are you?”

“No, boy, I ain’t. Did that once before and it ruined my peace a while.”

Sam hopped along beside her a few more moments, then said in a rush, “May I stay with you again tonight? It’s cold.” Jocasta stopped and turned to look at him. He blushed then held out his hand. He had a shilling in it. “You can have this.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Where’d you get that, Sam?”

“Honest!” he said. “After the constable pulled you away I watched them take the lady home again. Milky Boy gave me a note to take to his offices and the man there gave me this.”

“So you know where the Admiralty Office is then?”

Sam nodded so hard, Jocasta thought his ears must be ringing.

“All right then. Come on. I need bread and bed. There’s much to think on.”

“What will you do though, Mrs. Bligh? People never listen to us.”

“Papers and facts and times and things seen in the real-that’s what those people like. We’ll find ’em and we’ll make them listen, Sam. We’ll make them.”

Harriet was greeted in the nursery with great affection. Her little daughter Anne, with Susan’s promptings, displayed the full range of her talents at pointing out objects around the room or fetching them on the other children’s instructions. She did not, it seemed, resent being ordered about by her fellows, but fetched ball, and hoop and soldiers with a firm waddling gate and great pride, laughing and clapping her hands at the praise she received. Harriet’s son, Stephen, was a little more withdrawn than usual when the initial rush of excitement at his mother’s presence had worked itself out, so when Susan had Eustache, Jonathan and Anne curled in a corner looking at the pictures in Little Goody Two-Shoes, Harriet took him on her lap, and as he pulled on her copper-colored curls and played with the rings on her left hand, she asked him if anything had upset him that day.

“No,” he said carefully and exactly. He had taken off her promise ring and was examining its opals now in the last light of the fire. He had the dark hair and blue eyes of her husband. Love for them both fell over her in a sudden rush, and she pulled him close to her. It was a terrible thing to love. It made the whole world dangerous. Her son submitted a moment, then wriggled his shoulders. She bit her lip and released the pressure of her embrace. Stephen leaned against her and continued to twist the ring to make the milky stone in its center catch colors. After a few moments he said. “Mama, do you remember when I was very little and Hartley got hurt?”

Harriet struggled for a second, then nodded. He was speaking of one of the many cats their housekeeper in Caveley had owned during the years they had been in residence. Hartley had been an adventurous beast, and having made his way out of a window on one of the upper stories of the house, had slipped on the damp roof slates and fallen to the yard. Stephen had found him while walking the grounds with his nurse. The cat had still been breathing, but was badly hurt and in pain. It had tried to bite Stephen when he attempted to comfort it, and Harriet had asked her coachman, David, to break its neck.

She stroked her son’s hair. “I remember, Stephen. It was very sad. Why did you think of that today?”

He fidgeted against her and tilted his head toward his chin. “Nothing,” he mumbled, “only there is a cat who lives in the Square reminded me.” He said nothing further.

Harriet drew in her breath. “Stephen, you know your papa is very ill at the moment.”

“Yes, Mama, that is why we must live here. So that he can be looked after by people who are almost as clever as Mr. Crowther.”

“That’s right, young man,” she said very carefully. “But you know, don’t you, Stephen, that Papa loves us still very much, and we love him. He is just not able to show it at the moment. Just like Hartley loved you and would come and sit on your bed in the mornings, but he could not show it when he was hurt.”

The little boy was silent. Harriet lifted his chin so she could look into his eyes. He was so like his father, yet there was at times a softness in him that did not come from herself, or her husband. He had plucked it from the sea winds when she sailed, big with him, feeling his kicks under her belly as the ship rocked, and bound it into his character.

“Your papa loves you,” she said. “And you liked Dr. Trevelyan, didn’t you? He is going to make Papa well again.”

He looked at her. “Then may we all go home?”

Harriet’s voice was steady as she replied, “Yes, my love. Then we may all go home.”

There was a light rap at the door and the housekeeper peeped into the room. “Excuse me, madam, but a gentleman has called for you and Mr. Crowther. He asked that you should be told. I’ll help get these off to bed, and there’s some supper laid out.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Martin.” Harriet kissed her son’s hair once more and lifted him off her knee.

She paused briefly at the pier glass in the hallway and touched her hair into some sort of order. For the first time since August she recognized herself in the mirror.

Catching hold of the banister, she ran down the stairs to meet Mr. Tompkins.