Instruments of Darkness

2

Alexander was to be buried in St. Anne’s churchyard, half a mile or so from his home. There were burial grounds far prettier, but it was here that his wife had been laid to rest, and Mr. Graves believed that Alexander would not wish to be separated from her. Graves’s first duty though was to reach the magistrate of the parish and find what the law could do to pursue the murderer of his friend. Morning had only just begun to stretch across the city before he was on his way, leaving the children in the care of Miss Chase. Susan was still silent, but more watchful than stunned now, and Jonathan repeatedly found himself caught by sudden waves of grief that seemed to lift and drop his little body at will.

It was not long before Graves came upon the signs of the previous night’s work. The destruction of the Catholic church in Golden Square shocked him. The ground was dotted with pages ripped from the hymn and prayer books, the words singed, wounded, fluttering. The smoldering remains of a bonfire brooded in the center of the embarrassed-looking square of houses. He could see the bars of pews and other fittings of a church rearing within it like the blackened ribs of an animal caught in a forest fire. He paused for a second and a plain-looking man crossing the square halted next to him.

“Shocking, isn’t it, sir? Don’t they know it’s the same Bible we use?” He rubbed the stubble on his chin, and settled the linen bag of goods he carried more comfortably on his shoulder. “How do you call yourself a defender of true religion and then burn down a church? That’s what I want to know.”

Graves nodded sadly, then stepped back in slight alarm. Apparently out of the black and clinging ashes of the fire another man reared up, like a devil come to claim them from the ruins of the destroyed church; he staggered toward them, a damp blue cockade hanging from his hat and his back black with the soot of the fire, next to which he had presumably slept. Graves and his companion stood their ground as he weaved across the square toward them, mistaking them for admirers of the handiwork of his crowd. He looked at them both, then leaning forward into Graves’s face said with a leer, and with a broad wink, “No popery!”

Graves recoiled at the stench of stale alcohol on his breath, and thrust the man away from him. The Protestant hero was still too out of himself to maintain his balance and tottered backward, tripping over the remains of a burned cross at his feet and landing heavily on his arse.

Graves’s companion laughed heartily and pointed at him. The man ignored him but fixed an angry eye on Graves.

“I’ll have you for that, you Catholic bastard! I’ll know you again, and I’ll have you.”

He made no move to rise though, and Graves turned on his heel without bothering to reply and continued on his way. The journey was wasted, however. The Justice’s house was besieged, and the mob would not let him through. Some of the rioters of the previous night had been taken up and were to be examined and confined to Newgate for trial. Through the crowd he could see the flash of redcoats. Soldiers on the steps to guard the gate.

“It’s a matter of murder!” he protested. “I must speak to the justice!”

Some of those nearest to him turned enough to look him up and down.

“Will be murder, if they send those prisoners down. True Protestant heroes, every one.”

Graves tried to step forward, and was shoved back by a vicious-looking man twice his size.

“Get out of here, boy. Your business will wait.”

Graves made one more attempt and the same man twisted his arm hard behind him and whispered in his ear with horrible intimacy, “Will your business be served better when this crowd has torn you all up to pieces? Get away, I say.”

Graves slunk back, only able to comfort himself with Mr. Chase’s words of the previous night, and went to make his arrangements with the priest of St. Anne’s. The man was sorrowful and kind, and confirmed the wisdom of letting Alexander be buried and turn to the coroner when the city was calm again.

Graves returned briefly to his own lodgings-a room in one of the least disreputable houses in the vicinity of Seven Dials-to change his clothing, on which he at least could still see the marks of his friend’s blood. As he changed his clothes, he paused a long moment before the pocked and dusty mirror. He no longer looked, he thought, like such a young man. His own wound was still fresh and livid, of course, but the real change was a heaviness in his eyes he did not recognize.

Owen Graves was only twenty-one. He had come down from the country three years before, from his father’s home in the Cotswolds, determined to make a living in London with his pen. It had caused a breach with his family who, struggling to live like gentry on a clergyman’s income, had hoped he might find advancement in the law. But Graves had been romantic. He had struggled to feed and clothe himself through those three years with the work of his pen, and though his work was often admired, it had yet to prove profitable.

He wrote best about music, offering his short reports of concerts to the various presses turning out papers to entertain and inform the capital, but the publishers often complained that though he wrote prettily, he had an unfortunate tendency to write more about the music itself and how it struck him, rather than give a list of any fashionable personages in attendance and describe their manner of dress and behavior. He often tried to combine the necessary with what he regarded as the essential by claiming that some darling of the haut ton was particularly captivated by a certain melody in a certain piece. The trick served him well enough, as those to whom he gifted this great musical sensibility seldom wanted to contradict him, and so he lived. Barely.

He had loved music since childhood. His mother had a beautiful soprano voice, though she had given up her own career as a singer to marry the man she loved and live in uncomfortable poverty. It was family legend that Mr. Handel himself had said her leaving the stage was a waste and a damn shame. His father would tell any new acquaintance the story with pride, but Graves noticed that his mother always seemed to wince when it was mentioned.

So Mr. Graves arrived in town and found Alexander at one of the first concerts he attended in the capital. He had been so engaged by the playing he could not resist sharing his pleasure with the gentleman next to him at the interval. He had chosen to praise a piece that was a favorite of that man’s, and his opinion was listened to with appreciation.

Alexander, being a much older man than himself, had taken the place of a parent for him in those early months, encouraging and counseling the young man even while the grief from the loss of his wife Elizabeth was still raw. In return, Graves gave him his love and loyalty, his enthusiasm and quickness. Alexander’s house had become a second home to him. The man’s children were like the younger siblings he had never had; in their chatter he had found an escape from his own fears and failures, while in Alexander he had found a mentor who rewarded him with his trust and faith. Now he must earn what had been so freely given.

It took Graves a great effort of will to leave the house again. Before he left, he moved the loose pages of his writings around on the tabletop as a child spins buttercups in a pond, and wondered, without knowing why, when he might come back here, and what sort of man he might have become before he next lifted the latch.

Harriet did not feel any pleasure at the idea of calling on Lady Thornleigh that morning. It would look unusual, and she shrank a little from putting herself in a position where her behavior could be questioned.

The purpose of the visit was unclear even in her own mind. She knew she wanted Crowther to see Thornleigh Hall, to see if he sensed there the same aura of corruption she felt, but it seemed a vague beginning to any thorough investigation of the circumstances that had brought the body to the copse on the hill. She said as much to Crowther when she proposed the visit, and was comforted to hear he thought it the right thing to do.

“In my work, Mrs. Westerman,” he had said, “we must often explore in a general fashion at first, till we have specifics with which to grapple. You have suspicions that are still out of reach of language. We must look about us with those sensations in mind, and see if we can put a little meat on the bones of our argument. As to the visit itself, perhaps the local gentry will at this point simply assume you are proud of drawing me out of my seclusion and are parading me about like a leopard on a chain.”

Harriet could not imagine comparing the spare and dry Crowther with a leopard, but the image made her laugh, and that gave her some courage.

It was a long time since the families had done more than exchange compliments via their servants. Rachel felt it her duty to join them, and while Harriet was glad of it for appearance’s sake, she felt almost cruel sharing with Crowther what she had gleaned from the little sewing woman in the morning as they drove in the carriage toward the main gates of Thornleigh Hall. As she spoke, she glanced at the pale profile of her sister from time to time, but Rachel seemed determined only to examine the passing countryside and pretend, for the moment at least, not to hear them.

“Mrs. Mortimer was quite enlightening in the end about the key personages in the Hall. The last steward of Thornleigh was known as a hard but practical man. Not popular with the tenants, but a favorite of his master. Then, a little over two years ago, Claver Wicksteed appeared, out of the clear skies, it seemed, and Hugh announced his intention to make him steward. The former steward was bundled out of his place with enough to buy himself a little shop and left within a week, the hisses of the tenants ringing in his ears.”

Crowther turned toward her, one hand holding onto the edge of his seat as the carriage bounced a little on the dry roads.

“Is Wicksteed better liked?”

“No, not at all, and Mrs. Mortimer suggested to me that his influence on his master seems … unhealthy.”

Crowther looked at her with a lift of his eyebrows. The timing of Wicksteed’s arrival and Hugh’s change in behavior was not lost on them.

“She was not more specific? He takes on no more than the usual duties of a steward?” he asked.

Harriet shrugged. Crowther had always thought the gesture a little vulgar in women, but he was learning to allow Mrs. Westerman any number of liberties.

“No, though of course in an estate of this size those are considerable enough. He manages the rents and repairs and no one sees Mr. Thornleigh on estate business anymore. There was a period where he took a more active role in the management of the estate, but that time seems to have passed. Everything goes to Wicksteed and through Wicksteed-and Mr. Thornleigh appears not to give a damn.”

“Strange he should not choose to lose himself in London then.”

Harriet nodded. “I was surprised he did not leave again. I do not know-he seems restless, but has not visited the capital since Wicksteed arrived. Mrs. Mortimer gave me the impression that Wicksteed has the upper hand in the relationship. I suspect that goes against her feelings of the proper order of things. The only people in the village who would speak well of Wicksteed are those young girls with whom he has had nothing to do.”

Crowther looked at her enquiringly.

“No, I mean no scandal. He has never been seen to court any local girl. Only that his looks have won him friends, but his manner of doing business is inclined to be vicious.

He knows the benefits that bargaining for such an estate brings, and squeezes his advantage. I believe he takes pleasure in it.”

Crowther looked thoughtful. “So Wicksteed and Mr. Thornleigh had known each other before, we assume?”

“Yes. He told us, soon after Wicksteed arrived, that they had served together in the early days of the American Rebellion, though I never heard his name mentioned when Hugh spoke to us of his experiences previous to that, and I thought we could name every man in his regiment within a month of his coming home.”

Rachel turned from the window and looked at Crowther.

“I think the Americans are quite right to claim independence, don’t you, Mr. Crowther? Why should they not govern themselves? I think it a great shame my brother James has to serve in such a war.”

Her sister looked annoyed, and drew herself straight.

“My husband does his duty, Rachel.”

The younger woman put a hand out and patted her sister’s knee as a mother might encourage a child.

“Of course, Harry. And I am very proud of him, and he does very well with prize money for the ships he takes. I do not like his orders, though.”

Both women radiated a calm certainty which Crowther found entertaining. They might express it in different ways, but they shared strong will as a characteristic, he noted. He wondered what their father had been like.

“You are a defender of liberty, Miss Trench.”

Crowther was rewarded with a smile.

“Yes. But if you have more unpleasant things to say about the Thornleigh family, say them now, Harry, for we are already in the park.”

Thornleigh Hall was first built by the second earl some two hundred years before, but extensive improvements had been made over the generations to create an elegant and imposing building. Its wide, white-stoned frontage was full of high regular windows which reflected the open green parkland on which it stood. The west and east wings swept back at the same height as the frontage, suggesting a superfluity of apartments. It was designed to impress rather than welcome, and that it did. From the open lawns to the ornamental pools that framed the entrance, from the great doorway that could have swallowed their carriage whole to the innumerable chimney stacks that spoke of a city rather than the home of a single family, from the carved arms above the door to the intricate flourishes of stone below each window, it signaled wealth and power so assured it need never concern itself with anything so small as a single being crossing its threshold.

They sent their compliments to Lady Thornleigh from the carriage, and were invited to step in as quickly as could be hoped. Walking into the entrance hall, the sisters and the maid who was guiding them automatically paused for a moment to let Crowther absorb the grandeur of the place. Huge oils hung up the main stairway that reared in front of them and curled its back over their heads to reach the state rooms on the second floor. The pictures were mostly Biblical scenes of battle and sacrifice, mythical beasts being slain by heroes of almost satirical bodily perfection, accompanied by an array of worthies of the house, all displayed in full-length portraits and surrounded by their own personal signifiers of wealth, civilization and dominion.

From the foot of the stairs Crowther could look up into the vault of the roof where a domed skylight allowed in sufficient light for him to admire the remarkable frescoes that spun out over the ceiling. Heaven, Hell and the family of Thornleigh crowded round the Christ Child as He sat in His mother’s arms delivering judgment over creation from His position in the heart of Thornleigh Hall. No doubt the owners thought it the place He would have chosen from whence to judge.

When Harriet noticed where his attention was directed, she murmured, “The ceiling was painted soon after the current earl succeeded his father. That is the current Lord Thornleigh by the Archangel Michael.”

Crowther looked to where she indicated. A handsome, long-faced man in ermine was shown ignoring the angel and his flaming sword just above him. While piously lifting his hands to the Christ Child, Lord Thornleigh was also glancing backward toward the torments of the damned, if not with pleasure, then at least with complacency. The impression it made on Crowther was unpleasant.

At that moment, the maid obviously felt they had paused long enough.

“This way, madam.” As they followed her up the stairs, Crowther idly counted the liveried footmen standing to attention among the more valuable artworks they passed, but grew bored after reaching five and quickened his pace to keep up with the ladies.

The drawing room into which they were shown was an assault on the eye such that Crowther was afraid it might permanently damage his sight. The room was gold-exclusively, overpoweringly. The wallpaper was of golden fleurs-de-lis embossed in velvet on a paler background; the curtains were looped and spun with heavy golden brocade; each chairback, carved into a profusion of cherubs, clouds and cornucopia, was gold; the portraits on the walls were lapped with heavy golden frames; the mantelpiece over the empty grate was studded with gold trinkets, with, in its center, a clock perhaps two feet high where robust golden shepherds and shepherdesses on golden hills prepared to ring the quarters on golden bells with little golden hammers.

The woman in the room stood among all this splendor like a single lily on a gem-encrusted altar. She was about Harriet’s age and a little taller. When they entered, she was leaning among the curtains by one of the long windows that gave out over the front of the house. She turned as the maid announced them and looked at them for a long moment without speaking. Now this, Crowther thought to himself, is beauty.

Lady Thornleigh was dark haired, with wide eyes and a full mouth, and the outline of her body, showing under the tight formal lacings of her gown, suggested a form to be worshipped. She was the model every artist would want for the Magdalene. A sensuality flowed from her that overpowered even the stench of gold.

Crowther felt his mouth become a little dry, and wondered if Lady Thornleigh always greeted her visitors standing, and began each visit with this moment of silence, so they could admire and adjust to her presence among them.

“What an age you’ve been coming upstairs, Mrs. Westerman. I am sure I saw you step out of your carriage ten minutes ago.”

Harriet moved forward into the room. “We could not help pausing to let Mr. Crowther see the paintings, my lady.”

“Ugh!” Lady Thornleigh gave a shudder. “Horrid things, all that blood one has to see going downstairs every day. I wished for them to be taken down, but my son, Hugh, will have none of it. He calls it our heritage. Some heritage-I would prefer something rather more cheerful. I take my coffee in the upper salon now so I can avoid seeing them before breakfast.” She turned to look at Crowther. Her fine eyes ran him over and he felt as naked and helpless as a punished child.

“Lady Thornleigh, may I present Mr. Gabriel Crowther?” Harriet said. “He has been living in the Laraby House in the village.”

Crowther bowed, and Lady Thornleigh offered him a slight curtsy. Her movements were perfectly graceful, yet made with the minimum of effort. Crowther remembered her former profession was as a dancer. He wished he could have seen her perform.

“Yes, I recognize you. We sent our compliments when you arrived in the village.”

“I have been a slave to my studies, Lady Thornleigh.”

She looked at him again for a long moment, her smile mocking. The word “slave” seemed to please her. She broke the moment with a sweep of her skirts.

“Well, let us sit down then. Miss Trench, always a pleasure, I’m sure.”

When Lady Thornleigh bothered with the ordinary civilities, she did so with such ill-disguised boredom, Crowther almost laughed. As they sat she leaned back her beautiful head and shouted for her footman at the same volume as a street seller advertises her mackerel.

“Duncan!” The gold door opened again and a footman leaned in his elaborately powdered and wigged head.

“Tea.” The head nodded and withdrew. Lady Thornleigh stared at them again for a moment. “Mr. Crowther, do you like my drawing room? The earl had it done for me by way of compliment when we married. He said it suited me. I took it as a great kindness before, but now I wonder if he was being funny.”

She yawned a little behind her hand. All Crowther could think of was a cat. The nature of the smile that hung on her red lips made him hope he was never the bird she chose for sport. He bowed a little. Harriet settled her skirts.

“I hope Lord Thornleigh continues comfortably, my lady?”

My lady leaned back her head to admire the golden ceiling as she replied, “Oh, just the same. It is so dull-one marries a man for his wits then he loses them.” She looked at each of them in turn with a slow blink. “He was entertaining company before I married him, you know. He always had the cleverest things to say about his friends and neighbors. What a shame he never met the ladies of Caveley Park before he fell ill.” Lady Thornleigh let this thought sit in the air a moment, then shifted her gaze toward Crowther. “We were in London at first, you know. He used to promenade with me in the London parks, and all the dowager duchesses would try to run away. He could make them be civil, of course. Everyone was frightened of him then. Now people just pity him.”

No one could think of a response to this. If Lady Thornleigh found the silence uncomfortable, she did not show it. She turned her focus to Rachel.

“Miss Trench, I must thank you for that preparation you sent us. It smells disgusting, you will admit, but the nurse tells me it has eased the inflammations Lord Thornleigh is prone to suffer on his skin.”

“During my father’s last illness, it gave him some relief,” Rachel said softly.

Harriet looked at her sister in surprise. Lady Thornleigh noticed it and tilted her head to one side, her eyes wide.

“Did you not know your sister has turned apothecary, Mrs. Westerman? You will hear soon enough how half of Hartswood is in love with her skin salves.” She turned back to Rachel and raised her hand to wag a finger at her. “Though you should charge a full shilling, dearie-it is a mistake to sell it for only sixpence. People value things according to what they have paid for them. Charge them the shilling and they will tell everyone it is a wonder, for who wants to look a fool spending money on nonsense?”

After this moment of relative animation, Lady Thornleigh sat back in her chair again, watching Harriet’s continuing surprise with real pleasure. She looked away again to examine the middle distance of the golden air.

“It is remarkable how little some people know about what is going on in their own house.” A hand lifted to her face and she bit her full lower lip a second, pulling on one dark ringlet. “And it is not even a very big house.”

Crowther coughed.

The rituals of serving tea followed. Crowther noticed Harriet seemed a little at a loss in the presence of the earl’s wife. Her introduction of the subject of the body in the woods seemed almost clumsy.

“Is it not strange, Lady Thornleigh, that Viscount Hardew’s ring was found on the corpse?”

Lady Thornleigh yawned. Even her hands were exceptionally well made, Crowther thought as she lifted one to her mouth before replying. It was always a matter of proportion; the length of the fingerbones compared with those webbing together to make the palm, the ratio of fat and muscle, and of course, the quality and properties of the skin.

“No doubt he found it in London, recognized the arms and was coming to the house to see if he could gain a reward from Hugh,” she said with a shrug. “It is what I would have done.”

Harriet frowned briefly, then struggled on.

“How strange, also, to have had no news of Viscount Hardew for so long, and now the ring. He left the house before we came to Caveley, I believe. I do not think I have ever heard the detail of the case.”

“Have you not? Well, I always thought you above such a romance. I suppose we can pass the time telling the story again. It is almost funny when one considers it.”

Lady Thornleigh paused to reach for one of the dainty cakes provided with her tea, and nibbled at it with her small white teeth. It did not please her, so she replaced it with a little pout of disgust and picked up another from the plate to try instead. It was obviously an improvement as she kept it between her neat white fingers as she continued.

“Alexander fell in love with one of the family with which he was lodging. Some family in Chiswick with a funny name. Ah yes, Ariston-Grey. Sounds a trifle French to me. Musicians. A widowed father and his whelp. Alexander was mad for music, I am told. The old man died still fiddling away for his family’s entertainment, though I’m sure my husband paid him enough for keeping Alexander all those years, so he can have had no need to spin out tunes to entertain.”

“Perhaps he did it for the love of the music, Lady Thornleigh,” Rachel suggested.

“If you say so, Miss Trench.” Lady Thornleigh looked at her a little amazed. “I only ever had to do with music for my profession. No butcher slaughters animals for his own entertainment at the end of a day. Why should a fiddler play?” Rachel had no answer, so Lady Thornleigh continued. “The funny thing is, the lady turned out to be so terribly virtuous he could not have her without marrying her. My husband was fearfully angry. Thought Alexander a ridiculous fool and said if he couldn’t get a girl like that to be friendly without marriage, he was certainly not fit to run the estate, as he would be robbed at every turn. Alexander was a terribly upright sort, by all accounts, so before you could spit he was off out of the house and ready to marry the girl on the little scrap of money the fiddler left, and they’ve neither of them been heard of since.”

She ate a little more of the cake. “I say funny because of course Lord Thornleigh was thought to be a little daring to marry me, but I think it was Alexander’s priggishness and whining about the virtues of his intended that brought about the breach, more than the rather unequal nature of the match.”

She wiped the crumbs from her mouth and smiled her catlike smile. “We have so much money that the Thornleigh men could all marry paupers for five generations and it would still be all thoroughbred horses and ices in July.” Her dark eyes drifted over Rachel’s face. “That is, if they really wished to do so.”

The rest of the visit was nothing but awkward banalities, and an attempt to discuss the weather which made Lady Thornleigh yawn so widely Crowther was afraid she was in danger of dislocating her elegant jaw. Her remarks had been unpleasant enough that he expected Rachel and Harriet to be very angry when they left, but they were oddly forgiving. He was surprised by their generosity.

“No one would receive her in town, even when Lord Thornleigh was well, for all her talk of scaring duchesses,” Harriet said as the coach set off again.

Crowther remarked, “But why did she not make more friends when her husband became ill? I would have thought she still had an acquaintance wide enough after a year of marriage that would be eager to spend his money.”

Rachel turned toward them from the window and smoothed her skirts.

“She has very little money of her own, as a matter of fact. And she must be resident wherever Lord Thornleigh is, to receive anything at all. The articles of the marriage contract were very strict. When Lord Thornleigh dies she will be guardian of their little boy and have charge of his money, though not much is settled on him direct. He gets everything at the discretion of the new earl-Alexander, if he can be found. Hugh as well has only a little of his own. In her position, I think I would bundle up that horrible clock in a blanket and make a run for London, but she is probably too lazy.”

Rachel realized that both Crowther and Harriet were looking at her open-mouthed.

“Mr. Thornleigh told me,” she said, with an air of slight defiance. “And Harry, I did tell you I was making skin salves from Mama’s old recipes. You just weren’t listening.” She pouted a little. “You would have noticed when you did the accounts for the next quarter, for I have made four pounds, as it happens.”

Harriet was amazed.

“You have surprised your sister into silence, Miss Trench. An achievement, I think.”

Rachel met Crowther’s eye and smiled happily. He blinked his hooded eyes at her. “Now, if you are interested in inflammations of the skin, I have some books I can lend to you. Not usually reading I would recommend to females, but if you find it interesting …”

Rachel looked very pleased. Crowther glanced out of the window for a moment, trying to avoid the cheerfulness in her smile defrosting his own bones too far into softness. He was just in time to see a figure standing under the great portico at the Hall. It was a man, slim, but as far as he could tell from this distance, well formed. It was not Hugh Thornleigh, nor did he have the look of a servant about him. His hair was dark. The man watched their carriage retreat without moving. There was a stillness in his posture that Crowther found oddly disquieting.