Anatomy of Murder

PART VII
1

THURSDAY, 22 NOVEMBER 1781

“Mr. Pither! if you will only look about you one moment and consider!” It was rare that Crowther found himself to be the most heated person in the room, but his patience had snapped like kindling this morning. It was Harriet, pale and leaning against the broken door of Richard Bywater’s room, who managed to remain calm. Crowther was forced to consider that a night of marginal rest had managed to create some strange exchange in their characters. He was all impatience and movement; she still and speaking little. Yet she did speak now, shaking her head as Mr. Pither once again, under the guise of congratulation, insisted that the investigation was complete.

“Dear sir,” she said, “it may well be that Bywater killed Fitzraven to hide his plagiarism, or more likely in a rage on finding himself blackmailed-”

“Undoubtedly!” Pither interrupted with great glee. “Then on hearing that Mademoiselle also knew of his treachery, and perhaps suspecting this heinous crime, he killed her at the opera house, and then himself in a fit of remorse! Mr. Crowther found his confession in this very room.”

Harriet could not help noticing that Mr. Pither had gained a certain fluency now he believed his case was made. She did her utmost to remember that Pither was one of the better justices of London, but his pleasure, undisguised, with Bywater’s corpse still lying before them was difficult for her to forgive. She suspected him of imagining the newspaper paragraphs dancing before him.

“Please, sir,” she tried again, “the note Crowther found was only three words long. ‘I killed him.’ Not them, Mr. Pither. My dear sir, do you not think if he had just run back in haste from the murder of Miss Marin in order to bleed to death before Crowther could get here and gain entry, he would have said, ‘I killed her’? or ‘I killed them both’?”

Mr. Pither opened his mouth, but before he could restate his case, Crowther had begun to speak again.

“And the valise, Mr. Pither. What man packs his belongings before slicing his wrists? Bywater’s intention was to leave London yesterday, not to die.”

Pither folded his arms and stuck out his lip, reminding Harriet of nothing so much as her little boy when he was told the orchard could not be converted into a boating lake. “He may have at first thought to flee, then decided death was an easier exit,” he said very firmly.

Crowther stepped forward to the body and lifted the chin. Harriet watched calmly, but Pither flinched. “What of these bruises round the face? What of the empty gin bottle on the mantelpiece? I will swear to it I shall find most of this bottle in his belly.”

Pither’s voice became a little keening. “Well you might, sir. What could be more natural than to take a drink before committing such a desperate act. And the bruises may arise from any chance encounter in the street. I think your theory much more far-fetched than mine, Mr. Crowther.” He attempted a dismissive laugh. It was not a great success, but he continued undaunted: “You really think he arrived here, was forced to drink gin enough to render him insensible, was stripped, placed in the bathtub and had his wrists slashed all in the thirty minutes between the beginning of the second interval and your arrival here?”

The growl in Crowther’s voice grew almost to a roar. “Mr. Pither, I suggest no such thing!”

The justice gave a little instinctive skip away from him.

“What Crowther is suggesting, Mr. Pither, is that Bywater was killed some time before the performance, and therefore could not have been the murderer of Miss Marin.”

“But her maid Morgan says-”

Harriet continued, “Her maid says only that she intended to meet Mr. Bywater. Her note to that effect is also on the table. Perhaps he was composing a note to her to be delivered rather than keep his appointment. Morgan found Isabella dying in the scene room. She did not see who attacked her.”

“And more than that, look!” Crowther’s voice was another angry shout. He rocked the body over in the tub, splashing the pink waters on his shirtsleeves. Pither lifted his chin as if attempting to see what was indicated without approaching any nearer. “No, in all damnation come closer.” Pither gave a look of appeal to Harriet, who simply shrugged, then inched toward the tub trying to avoid the suspicious pools on the floorboards. “His femoral artery has been severed. That was done with a knife. I’d swear his wrists were cut with the same blade. Not with. .” he let the body fall back into the water then picked up a handkerchief from the mantel, shaking it open to reveal a bloody razor “. . this cheap shaving kit.”

Mr. Pither gave a little shiver at the sight of the blade. “It is all bloody!”

“Yes-but in the wrong way! All smeared and pasted on, though Bywater’s hand is clean. This is a performance-a trick.”

Pither peered at them. “But can you swear, either of you, that he absolutely could not have died after Miss Marin?”

Crowther slammed the razor back down on the mantelpiece. “The room was warm; the body in warm water. .”

Harriet raised her head again. “No one, not a single person, Mr. Pither, saw Bywater at His Majesty’s at any point yesterday.”

Mr. Pither became prim, trembling a little with a glorious sense that he was regaining some control of the situation. “That was not my question.”

Crowther said quietly, “I know of no way to ascertain precisely the time of death. With the wound to his leg he would certainly have died in minutes. That could have been at any time between five o’clock and my arrival here. The fire was low, but healthy.”

Mr. Pither almost smiled. “So he could have arranged to have the bath prepared. Popped out to the theater to murder the lovely Miss Marin then back to kill himself in despair. And you cannot prove otherwise. As to the knife, perhaps he stabbed his leg then. . then. . threw the knife into the street, where any vagabond passing might have picked it up!” He looked pleased with his inspiration.

As Harriet’s shoulders slumped and Crowther turned away in disgust, Pither continued, “As to these strange theories of yours, you can provide neither myself nor the magistrates at Bow Street with any suspect to interrogate, so I see no reason to regard them seriously.”

“But the evidence,” Crowther growled again.

“The evidence is quite clear to any reasonable human being,” Mr. Pither said, his mouth pursed together like a rosebud. “Indeed, I am sorry you could not capture Mr. Bywater before he killed poor Miss Marin, but there it is. Your assistance has been invaluable. I shall instruct the coroner and am very happy to inform the newspapers of the debt we all owe you.”

“The papers be damned,” Harriet said in the same weary voice she had used all morning.

Pither sniffed. “Whatever you say, Mrs. Westerman. Mr. Leacroft’s authorship of the duet will be acknowledged in due course. Or rather we will keep his name out of it if the gentleman wishes to be left alone. Miss Marin’s unfortunate origins need not be exposed. She will be honored as a martyr to truth, sacrificing love and her life so that Leacroft’s work would not be stolen. I understand a number of notable ladies are already in the process of arranging a subscription for a monument to that effect-one has already been in contact with my wife. Now I wish you good day.”

He turned and scurried out of the place, with nothing but Crowther’s black looks to follow him.