Anatomy of Murder

3

Crowther knocked lightly on the door of the room Gaskin had indicated, then opened it as Harriet and Susan waited in the shadows beyond. He looked into the room for a second, then gesturing at them to follow him, he stepped inside.

The apartment in which they found themselves was large, but shabby. It was lit by a high bay window, and a number of books and papers were scattered around the surfaces and floors. Some servant of the place had a care of Mr. Leacroft, however. The furniture might be worn or fraying, but it was cleaner than the hallway from which they had come. Someone had made an effort to wipe the lower panes of the window to provide a view; a metronome and tuning fork were arranged like ornaments on the top of the mantelpiece, and above it hung a watercolor of a man at a keyboard. Harriet recognized the hand of the artist whose works filled the hallway. She showed herself a better artist in this study than in her landscapes.

The room depicted was recognizably the one in which they now stood, but in the picture it was lit with summer sunshine and there were fresh flowers on the desk in the window. The figure at the keyboard was touchingly caught as if in mid-flourish with one hand raised from the instrument. The whole figure leaned forward into his playing; energy flew from him. It seemed Theophilius Leacroft still had the power to inspire at times.

The contrast between the image and the present gloom of the chamber was distressing. The keys of the harpsichord were covered and the stool tucked firmly away. It took Harriet a few moments to see the model of the player in the room itself, but as they reached the center of the chamber Mr. Leacroft moved in his seat, and her eyes found him in the gloom. He was lost in the folds of a great armchair that looked through the streaked window into the ill-kept garden beyond. He turned toward them, and Harriet was surprised to see a much younger man than she had expected. He could be no more than forty, and his face was unlined. His head had been shaved, but though he wore no wig, he was decently dressed. An auburn stubble marked out the edge of a high forehead and his eyes were as green as Harriet’s own. He looked very tired, and having blinked once at the company who had intruded on him, turned back toward the garden.

“Angel, demon or fool? Who visits today?” he said. His voice had the weariness of all time about it, but was still clear and cool. Its habits of musicality could not, it seemed, be hidden even in this air of fatigue. Harriet approached.

“We are none of these, Mr. Leacroft, I believe, and we are sorry to trouble you, but there are some things we must ask you.”

He continued to stare into the garden and sighed but did not speak. Lady Susan moved toward the harpsichord. Her fundamental nature as a musician best showed itself in that whenever she entered a room where there was an instrument, she could not rest until she had tried it. Crowther, meanwhile, pulled the portrait of Bywater from his pocket again and placed it in front of Leacroft’s eyes.

“Do you know this gentleman, sir? We believe he came to see you twice some little time ago.”

Mr. Leacroft neither responded nor looked at the paper in front of him.

Harriet caught Crowther’s eye. He removed the paper and put it into his pocket again.

“We are sorry to trouble you, sir, but it is a matter of the greatest importance,” Harriet said.

Susan had lifted the lid, adjusted the stool, and was beginning to try the keys. Her hands found their way into a piece of music Harriet had heard her play many times before in Berkeley Square. She had never really listened to it, nor did she pay much mind now, as she was too preoccupied with keeping the irritation and frustration out of her voice.

“Do you know the name Fitzraven, sir?”

A gentle animation spread over Mr. Leacroft’s features, and Harriet began to hope for an answer, but rather than speak to her, he stood and, ignoring Harriet and Crowther entirely, crossed over to the harpsichord. Susan stopped suddenly, rather frightened by his approach, but he smiled at her with genuine warmth.

“No, no. Play on.” He took a seat beside her, and Susan began again, a little hesitantly at first, then with greater confidence. After listening a while with an air of great pleasure, he said, “You like Mr. Mozart very much, don’t you, my dear?”

Harriet leaned toward Crowther and whispered, “Who is Mozart?”

Crowther shrugged. “There were a couple of children brought to London in the sixties. Their name was Mozart. I thought them a curiosity, like dancing bears. Performing monkeys.”

Susan nodded very hard at Mr. Leacroft, enthusiasm lighting up her face.

“My father saw him when he played as a little boy in London, sir. Then a friend of his brought this home with him from a trip to Paris. Father made me learn it at once. It was a great favorite of his.”

Mr. Leacroft’s eyes widened and he suddenly laughed out loud. “Why! You are Susan Adams-Alexander’s daughter! I heard you play this before-when could it have been? In early seventy-nine, yes, yes. . and thought you a prodigy, though you did not play it so well then as you do now.” He put his arm round the girl and kissed the top of her head. Susan grinned up at him as he went on, “Alexander had only a manuscript copy, is that not right? Did not Herr Mozart write it out himself for their friend?”

Susan laughed. “He did. Though Herr Mozart was rather drunk when he did so and wrote something rather rude about the old organist of Versailles at the end. Father copied it out again before he would give it to me to learn. Even though I didn’t speak French then.”

Mr. Leacroft rocked forward with laughter. “I remember! I borrowed the original and made my own copy. It was one of the last things I remember before coming here. I still have it, and sometimes when I am well I play it again. One can be lost and reborn in such music. .”

He became suddenly serious again. Harriet made to move forward, but found Crowther’s hand on her arm.

Susan began to play again. “I think this is my favorite part,” she said. Leacroft tilted his head to one side and listened.

“From the Presto. Yes. You have taste as well as talent, Miss Adams. It has a dark sort of pressing forward to it, does it not? The melancholy of A minor, it is like a hand across the sun of the major key. But how is your father, my dear? And you have a little brother, do you not?”

Susan’s hands became still on the keys. “Papa is dead, sir. But my brother is well.”

Leacroft covered her fingers briefly with his hand. “I am sorry to hear it, dear. He was a good man.”

Susan did not lift her eyes. “He was. Mrs. Westerman and Mr. Crowther here found who killed him and saved Jonathan and me.”

Leacroft looked up rather wonderingly at Harriet and Crowther; it was clear he had forgotten they were in the room.

Susan removed her hands from the keys and Leacroft began to play himself. It was a mournful, empty sort of sound. “Why are you here, sir?” Susan said quietly. “You do not seem mad to me.”

He continued to play. “I am not always as I am today, Susan. You have woken me a little, you and Mr. Mozart. But there has been such coming and going in the last little while. An old friend came to see me yesterday. She sang to me. It is strange, I had thought seeing her would make me very happy, but I felt as if she had brought all of London into the room. All the hurry and finery of it. I felt she was dragging something out of me. It made me very tired. Though I am glad she is well, I hope she does not come again.” His hands paused. “Do you understand? I know it is difficult. .”

“I think so, sir,” Susan replied. “I went to the opera on Saturday. It was wonderful, but it is exhausting to be so bright all the time.”

He nodded and smiled slightly, and his hands began to move on the keys again. Susan suddenly frowned and began to pick out a tune over the chords he played. Harriet concentrated. She was sure Susan was playing the theme from the “Yellow Rose Duet.” Leacroft continued to play as he asked, “You know this piece of mine? The young man in their picture stole it then.” He indicated Harriet and Crowther with his chin. “Strange. I wrote it thinking of Isabella. Then she came yesterday and sang it to me. She was amazed when I played alongside her. She asked too about that young man. Everyone does. It made her unhappy. I do not care that he took it.” He gave Susan a slightly twisted smile. “He came when I was in one of my shining moods. At such times I play and write day and night and think myself a king. He listened like a thirsty man drinks.”

Susan suddenly paused in her playing. “That part is different. In the opera house the harmony is this.” Leacroft raised his hands from the keyboard and Susan repeated the passage they had just played.

Leacroft shook his head. “No, no. The bass collects what has been, and hopes for what is to come.” He played the phrase again. Harriet could only tell it was different from the way Susan had played it, though it seemed more mournful, a deeper color somehow in the air.

Lady Susan seemed to hold her breath, then nodded very slowly. “That is a great deal better.”

Leacroft kept his eyes on the keyboard. “Yes.”

“Do you really not mind, sir, Mr. Bywater saying he wrote this piece when it is yours?”

“Miss Adams, I cannot feel it. I do not want the world to come and look at me. I was unhappy in the world. Here I am content. Perhaps that is enough to show I am mad.”

Susan looked down at her hands. “May I come and see you again, sir?”

He stopped for a second and looked into her face with calm consideration before he said, “Yes, my dear. I think I should like that. Who takes care of you now?”

“Mr. Graves. And Mrs. Service who lived opposite the shop.”

Leacroft looked up into the air to his right. “I remember Graves a little. He wrote for newspapers. And Mrs. Service. A quiet lady. How far away it seems. Yes. You may come, and bring Mrs. Service to watch you, but no one else, and not too often.”

“Thank you, sir.” She watched him for a little while, the way his hands moved over the keys. “I think perhaps you are weary, sir. We should go now.”

“Thank you, Miss Adams. Yes. I think so.”

Susan stood and gave him her hand; he bowed over it from his seat without standing, then returned to the keyboard. Susan walked toward the door. Harriet and Crowther simply followed in her wake, unnoticed.

Mr. Gaskin met them on the porch as they put on their cloaks. Susan fastened hers at her throat and, cutting across Mr. Gaskin’s compliments, turned and said to him, “Mr. Gaskin, I am Lady Susan Thornleigh. My brother is the Earl of Sussex. Theophilius Leacroft is my friend. We shall send manuscript paper for him to write on when the mood takes him.”

Mr. Gaskin’s greasy smile froze on his face and his eyes darted about in confusion.

“But, my lady, they are mere scraps! All in confusion! He writes on what he likes and leaves them fit for nothing but the fire.”

Susan was very still and spoke quietly. “We shall send paper. If he does not wish to keep his work by him, you must send it to us in Berkeley Square, and you will be paid for doing so. But if you put one more note of that gentleman’s music in the fire, I shall burn your house down.”

With that she turned and her footman handed her into the carriage. Harriet and Crowther, having nothing to add, followed her in silence, leaving Mr. Gaskin gasping and bowing on the gravel.

Harriet felt Susan trembling a little beside her. After a while, the girl turned toward her, and Harriet found herself looking down into her clear blue eyes. They had a thin rim of gold that matched her hair: it reminded her of Rachel.

“I did not want to be a lady, or rich, Mrs. Westerman,” she said. “But there are times when it is very useful, I think.”

Harriet put her arm around her and Lady Susan settled into her shoulder with a sigh.

“Indeed it is, my love. Indeed it is.”