Anatomy of Murder

2

Jocasta paused and looked about her. So used had she become to Sam’s little figure trotting at her side with Boyo, when he was not there she sensed it like a physical thing. He was still hanging around the way into the alley and looking up or down the street.

“They aren’t coming, Sam. So have done with looking.”

Sam came toward her smartly enough at that, but he was still looking over his shoulder.

“But they said they’d be here, Mrs. Bligh. And they’re friends of mine, Finn and Clay. Finn’s shared food with me a couple of times, and Clay let me sleep in his doss down once. But I didn’t like the other fellows there. Or the lady.” Jocasta could tell by the tone of his voice there weren’t many he could call friend.

She sniffed the air, saying, “It’s not a bad day. Like as not they found easier work to do, and they think you’re the daft one for sticking with me.”

The boy rubbed his nose with the back of his hand, smiled a bit and seemed comforted.

“What are we to do then, Mrs. Bligh?”

“I’ve been thinking on that, youngling. You know where Fred works then, do you? This Admiralty Office?”

“That I does, Mrs. Bligh. It’s that big place down Whitehall from Northumberland House. You want me to go and watch?”

“No, I’ll find it. You keep an eye on his mother.” The lad nodded and was about to disappear off again when Jocasta stopped him. “Sam! Stay low, and stay out the way, eh? Just keep an eye out; no need to make any enquiries or get chatting with the lads or anything.”

He nodded again and headed away from her at a pace. Jocasta felt a prickling up the back of her neck and thought of the little thud the rats’ bodies had made when they hit the heap.

Mr. Palmer was waiting for Harriet and Crowther in Mrs. Wheeler’s parlor. He thanked that lady gravely as she showed Harriet and Crowther in, then after she had withdrawn said: “Mrs. Wheeler is an old friend of mine, and of the service. I ask that you trust her as I do. If anyone has seen you enter, it is enough to say that you are acquainted via your husband. Now please, tell me what you have learned.”

It was Harriet who took the role of narrator of their investigations and conclusions to date. Crowther merely watched her as she spoke, adding the odd detail or explanation when called upon. Her tone was calm and measured. The seriousness of Mr. Palmer made her careful in her choice of words and the weight she placed on them. As Crowther looked at her, he conjectured he had made this woman a voice for part of himself; or rather some part of his intellect had blended with some part of her own, and this voice, calm but warmed with life and curiosity, was how it spoke. She concluded with Mr. Tompkins’s call.

“I believe, if Mr. Tompkins will introduce us to this Gladys,” she said, “we may have means to find out who this angel is.” Palmer looked at her with interest. “I thought at first, of course, we could take her to the opera house and see if she could recognize this angel among the people and company there, but I am aware. .” her voice slowed, “that persons of her sort may find the unaccustomed noise and confusion of such a place painful to a degree that might make any such recognition unlikely.”

Mr. Palmer sighed. “I believe what you say. What do you propose?”

“Mr. Graves has in his employ a gentleman very gifted in taking likenesses, even without seeing the individuals himself in the flesh, only by description.”

“A remarkable skill,” Palmer said with a smile.

“Indeed, and a useful one. I hope we may ask him to make some portraits which we could then show to poor Gladys in her own home, and see if her angel is among them. We intend to employ Lady Susan to instruct him, since she knows the personages well.”

Palmer nodded. Harriet sighed and leaned forward; her voice became her own. “But are you convinced, Mr. Palmer, that Fitzraven is indeed the man mentioned by your agent in France? He was, it seems, a rather lowly creature. What could he know, or discover, that the French would be willing to pay for?”

Palmer was not a man who rushed into speech. He considered before he replied.

“I believe Nathaniel Fitzraven was the man mentioned. The proof that he has been in France would be evidence enough to make me extremely suspicious, but your discovery of his account book, his new wealth, your suspicion that the room was searched before your arrival, convince me of it.” He paused and adjusted his cuff. “I believe he must have made some contact with an agent of the French in Milan. Someone there must have noted his habits and character and decided to make use of them for the benefit of our enemies. I fear there are spies of every color in every city across Europe.”

Harriet sighed. “Indeed, you have your friend who heard of this ‘spy-master,’ and of Fitzraven’s name.”

A look of pain crossed Palmer’s face like a cloud as he said, “He was likely then sent to France to receive money, or the blessing of my counterparts there, or further instructions, and had time to acquire his remarkable teeth. He has had, it seems, more money since, but if that is a result of spying or some other petty, private blackmail, I cannot say. As to what the French thought he might be able to tell them, it seems he was a man who liked to boast of his knowledge and connections. Of course, the French Navy has no interest in the gossip of His Majesty’s Theatre, but that place is attended, throughout the season, by some of the most important men in our land. He could well hear things, follow men about, find others like himself. For whomever is at the core of the French intelligence operations here he might have proved a useful servant.”

Crowther watched these various conjectures move across Palmer’s face, like the weather on a deep lake, ruffling its service one way or another.

“You do not think Fitzraven our spymaster then, Mr. Palmer?”

Mr. Palmer stood and walked to the window. Harriet noticed that when he looked out, he kept his body to the left of the window frame. From the street he would have appeared only as a shadow. “The French would not have been proud of so small a man. They had arranged some coup. Fitzraven was a pawn in the game. A little man, and a little death.”

For the first time since she had begun to learn something of Fitzraven’s character, Harriet felt some pity for him.

Palmer went on, “He may have aimed to recruit others. Or he may have acted as a go-between with agents already in place in society. He had much influence with Miss Marin, for instance.”

“She had grown to dislike him,” Harriet said.

“So she told you, madam. But the bonds of blood can prove very strong. A woman may be wronged grievously by a father or lover, then betray herself and all she holds dear to seek still the love of that man.”

Harriet visibly stiffened. “A man might do the same.”

Palmer gave her a slight nod. “Indeed. But I am speaking of Miss Marin. She is a very beautiful woman. Many men of rank and influence, in hopes of gaining her admiration, might tell her tidbits that the French would be very glad to hear. Those she could pass on to her father in hopes of the reward of his affection.”

Crowther spoke before Harriet had any opportunity to launch into a lengthy defense of Miss Marin. “What of his sudden association with Lord Carmichael?”

Mr. Palmer turned around and looked directly into Crowther’s icy eyes. “He was involved in the case of your brother and father, I believe?”

Crowther’s throat went a little dry and he said simply, “Peripherally.”

Palmer turned back to the street outside. “I shall not tell you to guard against prejudice. I have my suspicions of Carmichael and would be glad if you could tell me more of him and his connections. I am wondering if he offered accommodation to Manzerotti in order to tempt a number of noble lovers of song into his house. He has a hunting lodge close to the Kent coast and a great many people seem to work for him in some capacity or other. He moves in the political world, yet does not involve himself directly. He is rich indeed, but his habits are expensive. He would be a great asset to the French, and could be the conduit through which information flows to France.”

Harriet frowned and sat back in her chair. “But he is rich enough to pay for whatever he wishes, and pay his stepson Longley’s debts. Why risk death to spy?”

Mr. Palmer came and took the seat opposite her again.

“There is a darkness in the souls of men, Mrs. Westerman. The stimulation of it, perhaps. I know he gambles and has fought duels over trifles. Who can say?”

Crowther’s voice seemed unnaturally loud in his own head when he spoke. “He enjoys manipulating those whom he knows, or suspects, to be weaker characters than himself.”

Harriet folded her arms. “That I can believe. I found him a deeply unpleasant character, and I fear for his stepson. He was being sent to Harwich,” she added quietly. “Might Carmichael risk sending Longley to France bearing intelligence?”

“I fear for him also. I can arrange to have him pursued. Quietly,” Palmer replied with a deep sadness in his voice, then he watched Harriet with steady attention as she continued.

“So let us say we believe Fitzraven was a spy, or to some degree involved in espionage. For what reason was he killed?”

“I do not know,” Palmer said, “and I believe it is important that you find out if you can, madam. He may have thought to betray his conspirators. It may have sprung from other causes. We are putting our faith in you.”

Harriet was looking down at the floor, deep in thought. She did not appear to revel in this statement of his trust. She stroked her brow as if trying to dislodge some irritation in her brain. “Dear Lord, treachery, bedroom gossip, men of such malignancy as Carmichael and Fitzraven. My husband fought clean battles for his country.”

Mr. Palmer’s expression lost its softness and became fierce. “And some of them he won because of information that persons such as myself managed to procure for him and his fellow officers.” Crowther saw the note of rebellion in Harriet’s green eyes. Mr. Palmer saw it too perhaps, and possibly his memory of being at the sharp end of Harriet’s temper returned to him as he went on in a more conciliatory tone: “Life becomes more. . complex, the more closely we consider it. Would you not agree, Mr. Crowther?”

“Undoubtedly.”

“Wars, battles, competition for trade, struggles for liberty or control-everything is influence: networks of information, moments of confrontation or compromise. Yes, we like to believe in the grand victory nobly fought, but life delivers very little to us so tidily, no matter what our own abilities or the rightness of our cause. So, Mrs. Westerman, you must understand that such business is as much a part of war as brave officers and well-trained men. This matter with Fitzraven is sordid, but we may save the lives of our men by our actions. We are in danger of losing the colonies in America, and more important perhaps, our reputation as masters of the sea. This cannot be. Whatever we can do to prevent or lessen our losses will be bringing some happiness, saving our countrymen from treachery, defeat, poverty, shame.” He rubbed his eyes tiredly. “I have not heard from the agent who supplied Fitzraven’s name for some time. I can only hope she is well. She is a brave servant of her king.”

It seemed to Crowther that with that last remark Palmer had won his point with Harriet, for after a moment she asked in more subdued tones: “Has much damage been done already, Mr. Palmer?”

“Perhaps, and our enemies aim to do a great deal more. I wish I had some comfort to offer you. Fitzraven’s death is strange. It has drawn our attention and it may be the unraveling of whatever organization is in place before it has the chance to deal our Navy fatal blows across its back. Let us hope that is the case.”

Mrs. Wheeler knocked at the door to tell them Mr. Palmer’s carriage was waiting, then spent half an hour in calm conversation with Harriet and Mr. Crowther on neutral subjects until they thought it safe to summon their own.