Anatomy of Murder

6

Crowther had a sense of some danger as he mentioned to Harriet that he had asked Mr. Harwood to call on them after dinner, and then murmured his reasons for doing so. Mrs. Westerman’s movements were constrained, her only remarks insipid in the extreme and the muscles in her jaw tightened considerably when Rachel joined them. Once the formalities of dining were disposed of, rather more swiftly than usual, and she had spoken at some length of the quality of the oysters and demanded the recipe be brought to her as soon as convenient, Harriet retired to the library. Crowther did not linger long over his wine with Graves, and joined her there after only a few minutes.

“Dear God, Mrs. Westerman, what was that?”

She was slumped again in the armchair by the fire-which, Crowther hoped, indicated that her performance was at an end.

“What are you talking about, Crowther?” she said wearily, without looking up.

“I understand you have had some disagreement with your sister, but it seems cruel to subject Graves, Mrs. Service and myself to your simpering parody of good manners. I am glad it was not one of the occasions where Lady Susan dined with us.”

Harriet folded her arms. “Do not lecture me, Crowther.”

“You are a guest in this house.”

Harriet was silent for a while. She had been angry, she still was, but it was that most bitter and uncomfortable anger that came with a sensation of guilt. She did not think it would ever occur to Graves, admiring her as he did, to question her behavior. For that kindness she had called him a fool in the blackness of her heart. Mrs. Service was never anything but reasonable and friendly. Rachel was still in many ways a prim little girl, much more the vicar’s daughter than Harriet, but she did not deserve Harriet’s scorn, and it had been scorn that was the driver of her performance at dinner. She had been mocking and humiliating Rachel, she had known she was doing it, and now here was Crowther to tell her so. Graves it had left confused, Rachel miserable, Mrs. Service slightly exasperated and Crowther angry, and she had got no relief from it.

“Should I apologize to Graves and Mrs. Service?”

Crowther took a seat on the opposite side of the fire. “Personally, I never compound an offense with apologies,” he said. Harriet laughed suddenly and glanced across at him. Some of the gravity had left his expression. She felt a weight shift from her shoulders and let her breath out slowly before speaking.

“Very well. Did Rachel tell you she and I had disagreed?”

“Not as such, but she sought me out to ask my advice about the love affairs of Mr. Graves and Verity Chase. I cannot imagine she would have done so unless you had already proved an unwilling audience.”

“We managed to be at each other’s throats before she had much chance to tell me a great deal. What was the matter of it?”

“Miss Chase wishes to plan her wedding to Graves, but knows he hates the fact that the food he eats-that we all eat-is paid for by the estate of the Earl of Sussex. He cannot make his own fortune while he is managing another, and is too proud to add a wife and family to the charge he makes on Lord Sussex’s fortunes. Miss Chase wants him to use her marriage portion to buy the music shop from the estate of the Earl of Sussex, and so provide them with an independent income. However, she fears he no longer wishes to marry her. Perhaps she is dazzled senseless by the enormous quantity of gilt in this house. I think Rachel assured her that he does, but wished to know if I thought it likely Graves would approve of the plan for the shop, or whether his pride would prevent him acquiescing.”

Harriet found herself amused by the idea of Crowther receiving this information from her sister and wondered what his expression had been as he had listened. “And your reply?”

“I said that in matters of the heart my concerns are more practical than metaphysical. If she wished to bring me Mr. Graves’s heart in a jar I could tell her if it were healthy or no, but further than that I had no idea and advised her to talk to Mrs. Service.”

Harriet sighed. “Poor Rachel. We have not been of great assistance. I wonder why she did not go to Mrs. Service at once, having instructed me on my proper behavior.”

Crowther put his fingers together and said lightly, “I imagine because she knew you and I would be having this conversation at some point during the evening and wished you to be informed of the plan for the music shop. Your sister is young, and a little overcautious of your reputation perhaps, but she is no fool, Mrs. Westerman. And my remark about Mr. Graves’s heart made her smile.”

“I am hasty with her.”

He did not reply but let the silence unfold between them till Harriet said: “I fear I learned very little from Lord Carmichael other than I do not like him, and his stepson is wholly in his power. He had nothing to say of Fitzraven that did not confirm what we knew of him previously. Tell me of your meeting with Bywater.”

Crowther put his hand to his chin. “That gentleman is certainly guilty of something.”

“Of love?”

“As we have already said, I am no expert in such areas, but of something more, I believe. However, I do not think him a likely spy for the French. He claims he had no idea that Fitzraven was following him. My impression is he wishes public renown rather than private riches. That would make it unlikely for him to trade secrets for money, though he might for influence, but really, what could a composer with limited connections know that would be of interest to the French?” Harriet assumed the question was rhetorical so did not reply. “And, Mrs. Westerman, we have an appointment tomorrow morning.”

“With Bywater?”

“No, madam. With Mr. Palmer. There was a note delivered here this afternoon. We are invited to call on a Mrs. Wheeler in Conduit Street, where we shall meet an old friend. I assume that is Mr. Palmer.”

“He is most circumspect.”

“He most likely has his reasons. If his suspicions are correct, and Fitzraven’s having spent time in France this summer, when Mr. Harwood thought him only in Milan, suggest they might well be, then we are on dangerous ground. It is a high-stakes game. Men are hanged for murder. They are drawn and quartered for treachery.”

Harriet was still digesting this comment when there was a rap at the door and Mrs. Martin stepped in.

“Mr. Crowther, Mrs. Westerman. A gentleman is here and wishes to speak to you. A Mr. Winter Harwood from His Majesty’s Theatre.” She paused then held out a piece of paper to Harriet. “And here is the recipe for the oysters, ma’am.”

It may have been he was only clearing his throat, but to Harriet it sounded suspiciously as if Crowther laughed.

Jocasta, Sam and Boyo had made their way back into the heart of the city through the shadows and were all weary and slow by the time they reached Jocasta’s alleyway. There was a stirring in the dark under the pear tree as they approached and two boys emerged from the gloom and exchanged nods with Sam.

He pointed at each of them. “This is Finn, Mrs. Bligh. And this is Clayton.”

They touched their foreheads to her and shuffled their feet. Jocasta led them into her room, where Sam set about making the fire. The shorter of the two, Clayton, sat on his hands to warm them and said Fred had changed his coat in Salisbury Street after the burial, then gone to the Admiralty Office. He’d come out with two other men like him and got settled in at the alehouse in Crag’s Court.

“He looked funny though.”

“What do you mean, boy?” Jocasta said.

“He was walking slow and heavy, and the others were sort of holding him up. He was wailing a bit, and the others were looking about them as if they were worried he’d be heard. He looked to me like he didn’t want to go anywhere with them, but they wouldn’t let him be. He was there a while then went back home on his ownsome. I thought. .”

“Tell on.”

“I thought he was crying like, as he was walking along. Then I met up with Finn in Salisbury Street, and we thought we’d head back here.”

Finn, the taller, skinnier one who had red hair, had been keeping an eye on Mrs. Mitchell.

“She didn’t do much. Got to her coffee shop after the burying and stayed there till supper, then headed back to Salisbury Street. There was a man paid a visit-he was just leaving when Fred came back.”

Jocasta sniffed. “Her man?”

“Couldn’t say, Mrs. Bligh,” the boy said, thrusting his hands in his pockets. “Tall fella. Dressed plain. That Fred was very respectful of him, bowing and scraping as they talked like he was the Emperor of China. Got the feeling the words between them weren’t kindly. Tall Man said something and Fred flinched and wiped his eyes and tried to stand a bit straighter. Then Clayton came and tapped me on the shoulder and by the time we turned back, Tall Man was gone and the door was shut.”

“Fairly said.” Jocasta folded her arms. “Anything more?”

“I got talking to one of her boys what help out in the shop.”

“What did he say, Finn?” Sam asked, as he set the lighter stuff for the fire, and started to strike up Jocasta’s steel.

“That some weeks ago the missus was looking grim, but last Tuesday the landlord was in and she put money in his hands like she was the Queen of Sheba tossing away stones. Oh, and that he likes Wednesday and Saturday best because he gets extra tips selling books to the rich livers in the coaches.”

“Books and coaches?” Sam asked, then started to blow on the embers.

“Mrs. Mitchell has the right to sell coffee and oranges and storybooks. She gets the words from the theater, then has them printed in Hedge Lane, the liberrrettos,” he trilled, enjoying the word. “She pays fifty pounds a year for it. Wednesday and Saturday are when they do the singing there, at His Majesty’s Opera House in Hay Market.”

Mr. Winter Harwood was very poised.

“You asked me to come here, Mr. Crowther, and I have. It was not convenient, but I came. Is it too much to hope you have found out who killed Fitzraven and that the matter is concluded?”

Harriet found Mr. Harwood a most interesting study. Without appearing impolite he had taken a seat, declined all offers of refreshment and done so with such economy of movement and word, this speech sounded by comparison like an oration. Harriet thought if he were similarly thrifty with his resources at the Opera House, for all its extravagances, he was probably amassing a considerable fortune there. Though the question was addressed to Crowther, it was she who replied.

“Mr. Crowther has been wondering at your continued employment of Mr. Fitzraven after he ceased to play for you.”

A slight frown appeared between Mr. Harwood’s fine sandy eyebrows. “I believe I have already explained, Mrs. Westerman-”

“Indeed,” Crowther interrupted, “running errands, writing puffs in the newspaper and so forth. But I have been wondering, Mr. Harwood, if you did not find it convenient, dealing with the great individuals on and off the stage, to know a little more about them than it was agreeable to ask in person.”

Mr. Harwood’s face gave no sign of shock or anger. Harriet found she was holding her breath. If Fitzraven had followed the leading players of the opera around the place with Harwood’s blessing, it would give them meat indeed for Mr. Palmer. Fitzraven was quite possibly trained in the value-the monetary value-of information before he went to France, and had no difficulty with trading in it.

“You are suggesting. .?”

“I am suggesting that Fitzraven spied for you, Mr. Harwood,” Crowther continued. “You knew his reputation to be bad, but he was obviously of some use to you, even before his miraculous delivery of Miss Marin and Manzerotti. I think you made use for your own purposes of his love of finding out the details of the lives of those influential or renowned beings with whom he came into contact.”

There was a long pause. Very few men had the courage to remain so calm under Crowther’s eye. Mr. Harwood would be a remarkable opponent at the card table.

“You are very blunt, sir.”

Through the closed door to the library the small sounds of the household filtered; a living thing. One of the servants moving through the passageway. A door upstairs opening and closing. Lady Susan was practicing at the harpsichord before retiring; its soft voice curled down the main stair and whispered sweetly under the door.

“Mr. Harwood,” Harriet said, “if Fitzraven was bringing you information about the personalities in your establishment, we would like to know. How you manage the opera is your concern, but if he found something in his wanderings after your employees and patrons and that knowledge led to his death. .”

Mr. Harwood pursed his lips and looked into the fire. Then nodded.

“The arrangement was unofficial and unacknowledged,” he said. Harriet felt her breathing steady. “I may look to the world like a little king in His Majesty’s, but in truth I merely preside over a number of rather independent baronies. The costumers, the singers, the musicians, the magicians of stage machinery, the house poets. . all have their areas of responsibility and expertise, and all compete. Fitzraven would come and see me from time to time, with one tidbit of information or another. It has helped me avoid some minor problems in the past, and take advantage of some small opportunities at others.”

“I see. For example?” Crowther’s voice was dry.

“Aside from making use of the petty jealousies within the theater, it becomes a great deal easier to renegotiate the arrangements for a singer’s benefit if you know he has lost a large sum at cards the previous evening.” Harwood met Crowther’s gaze evenly. He neither defied judgment, nor invited it.

“And you paid for this service?”

“It was usual that having delivered his information, Fitzraven would ask me for some small loan. Those loans were never repaid.”

“And have you made many small loans to him this season since he returned from the continent?”

“No, Mr. Crowther. I was rather surprised, I admit, to find this the case, but since he came back from the continent I have not made one.”

Jocasta had fed the boys with meal and milk, then Finn and Clayton had headed out into the dark looking warmer and brighter for the feeding. Clayton had a place he was sharing in one of the ruined houses in Whitechapel, and Finn always slept in a couple of barns he knew off the Islington Road. He’d never slept in a proper bed. “Don’t think I’d like it, Mrs. Bligh,” he’d said. “I like to have some space about me, and a clear run at the fields. Being inside makes me jittery.” They told her they’d call by the next day and see if she had work for them, then made their way out into the inky blackness of the alleys. She saw the want in Sam’s face though, the little scrap, and gave him a nod. He went out with the others, but ten minutes later was slipping back in through the door like the shadow of a cat, and curled himself up in a corner away from the fire. It was as if he didn’t want to be blamed for stealing the heat of it.

Jocasta didn’t sleep so soon, and Boyo kept her company on the couch. She pulled at his ears and watched the fire burn out, then stood to fetch Sam’s blanket and drop it over him. Strange how already she thought of it as his own. All she could see though was the rock with that blond wisp jammed to it. It would have been quick anyway.

She must have dozed, because something woke her, and she could tell by the taste of the night air creeping in that it was coming up to dawn again. Boyo had been woken too and was looking at the door. He was rearing up against the coverings of the couch, his ears flat and teeth bared, and a low growl starting in the back of his throat. Jocasta frowned, then stood slowly and crossed the room. The latch lifted odd, strangely reluctant under her thumb. She pulled it open, letting more shadows tumble into the room to pile on the heaps of grays already curled around her bed and spilling out from the cold grate of the fireplace. There were a pair of rats, quite dead with their little white teeth showing, slung on a bit of string and hooked around the latch on the outside of her door. Someone had gone to the trouble of tying a noose around each furry throat and pulling it tight. The hallway was empty, and the only noise in the house was the quiet of its people sleeping.

Jocasta threw the bodies into the stink heap in the yard and looked about her. Nothing but the shake of the pear tree, old man Hopps coughing in his sleep in the front room opposite, a light footstep out on St. Martin’s Lane. The little corpses were still warm.