Instruments of Darkness

3

Harriet ate her dinner quickly, and Crowther barely ate at all. As soon as the servants left the three to themselves, the revelation that Alexander might have sent Nurse Bray to Thornleigh was picked over again, and the women seemed ready to accept it as fact.

“We have no proof,” said Crowther wearily, and for the third time.

“There must be an inquest tomorrow,” Harriet replied a little crossly. “Perhaps Nurse Bray had friends at the Hall of whom we know nothing as yet. They may be able to inform us.”

“I hope for their sake, if they exist, they do not know Alexander’s address,” Rachel sighed. “Having it seems to be very dangerous.”

Crowther and Harriet looked at her, suddenly stilled.

“If I were you,” she continued, “before going to the Hall and demanding that Hugh tell us if he is in the power of his steward, I would see what you can get from Mr. Cartwright. He is the only one we know who met Carter Brook when he lived, after all. He was so miserable to be seen to know Brook, perhaps he did not say everything he knew of him.”

Crowther nodded. “You are quite right, Miss Trench. That is perhaps the best course of action.”

Rachel helped herself to a little more of the fish, and grinned a little pertly at Harriet.

“He will probably not wish to see you. So I would suggest a long walk in the heat to the village and a sudden attack of faintness just outside his shop, Harriet.”

Crowther saw Harriet smile, and commented, “This country lost a great general when you were born a woman, Miss Trench.”

“Every woman must think like a general from time to time, I think,” she answered with a slight bow. “And you’ll be glad to know the country also lost a great actress when my sister was brought up to be a respectable married woman.”

Harriet mirrored her sister’s bow back to her with a slightly twisted smile.

“I’m not sure I am behaving like a respectable married woman at the moment, Rachel.”

Her sister widened her eyes a little. “Oh Harry, I did not say you were a respectable woman, just that you were brought up to be one!”

Crowther wondered if Mrs. Westerman were about to throw her napkin, and suspected Miss Trench was saved only by the door opening and Mrs. Heathcote’s arrival to clear the dishes.

Miss Trench had not exaggerated her sister’s skills. Crowther saw Mrs. Westerman prepare herself as they approached the shutters of Cartwright’s shop, taking her breaths in a shallow rush, but as her weight fell against him, just where Crowther could still reach the door-knocker, he could not have distinguished between a genuine spell of weakness and those symptoms that Harriet displayed. He only hoped his performance would be equal. He struck an urgent double clap at the door, and as soon as it was opened by a sweetheart-faced maid, the girl who became nervous when left alone, he supposed, he half-led, half-carried, Mrs. Westerman in before the girl could do any more than open and close her mouth. Crowther pushed at the first door he could see, which led into a modest parlor, and supported Harriet into a chair.

The maid looked at them rather nervously, then said firmly, “Mr. Cartwright sends his apologies but he is much engaged with business today, and unable to receive callers.”

Crowther composed his face into a severe frown and turned round sharply on his heel.

“Dear girl, do you suppose Mrs. Westerman or myself are in the habit of making social calls in this manner?” The child lifted her chin. “Mrs. Westerman has been taken ill in the heat, and requires a place to rest. Your master may go to the devil, for all I care.”

Harriet looked up, her face flushed, her breathing still short, her eyes moist with appeal.

“I just need a glass of water, and a chance to recover myself, Hannah. We found Nurse Bray yesterday, you know… I began to think of her poor face, and …”

Crowther was fascinated to see a large tear run down her cheek. Without thinking, he took her wrist in one hand and his watch in the other and started to take her pulse. Hannah stepped forward with a little sigh, and her shoulders relaxed.

“Of course I’ll get you some water. You stay right there, ma’am.” She shot a bitter look at Crowther and turned quickly enough for her skirts to swish. The door rattled on its latch behind her.

Mrs. Westerman’s pulse was steady and even as any man could wish. Crowther looked up from his watch and caught her eye. She winked at him. They could hear a muttered conversation in the hallway outside, and the door opened to allow the master himself in, bearing the water and leaning his upper body forward as he walked, as if he felt it dangerous to have his own head higher than either of his guests.”

“Dear Mrs. Westerman! So sorry you are unwell.”

He offered the glass. Harriet took it with a trembling hand.

“Mr. Cartwright, so sorry to disturb you!” Her eyelashes fluttered, and he tutted away her apologies. “You know Mr. Crowther, I presume. Mr. Crowther, this is Mr. Cartwright.”

Crowther drew himself up very straight and looked down his nose. “Ah, yes! The glove man.”

Cartwright gave a slightly sick smile. “That’s right, sir. As I have had occasion to remark to you before, the name is above the door. But do take a seat.” He took a step back and opened the door into the hallway again. “Hannah! Fetch in some of that lemonade, if you will.”

Harriet raised a hand. “We trouble you too much, sir.”

“Not at all, not at all, Mrs. Westerman!”

Crowther settled himself with a convincingly bored sigh and there was a moment of silence as the two men watched Mrs. Westerman take a sip of her water, and then, as if the effort of holding it were almost too much, place the glass on the table beside her. She then said rather more brightly: “So it was you who found the unfortunate Brook for Mr. Thornleigh, Mr. Cartwright. And how did that come about?”

The little man stiffened and looked confused. Hannah reentered with lemonade and three empty glasses. Harriet seemed to fall back into her chair a little, and took hers with a weak, “Thank you,” but as soon as Hannah was out of the room again her condition seemed to improve, and she looked at Mr. Cartwright with steady, friendly attention. He glanced from one to the other and his skin acquired a slight sheen. He reminded Crowther of a cornered amphibian.

“There is a coffee shop I visit during my buying trips to London. I knew Brook very slightly from there. I may, in my dealings with Captain Thornleigh, have mentioned some of the types I had met in London.” He seemed to feel the importance of at least appearing to become a little more comfortable and leaned back in his chair, crossing his legs. Crowther noticed for the first time that his pantaloons were a most remarkable shade of yellow.

“Sometimes, for the amusement of my friends, I am in the habit of composing little character sketches of some of those I come across in the great city. I always hope to have something new for Captain Thornleigh when I see him.”

Harriet smiled broadly at him. “It is such a thing to have the talent to amuse!” Cartwright raised his hand as if to brush away this praise, coloring faintly. “So he knew that you might be able to find help for him?”

“I suppose so, though I stressed I could not answer for Brook’s character, and advised Captain Thornleigh most strongly that he should make no advances of money without some tokens of proof.”

Crowther put his fingers together and let his gaze travel slowly over Cartwright, until he was sure the man was aware of the scrutiny, and uneasy under it.

“Why do you always refer to Mr. Thornleigh by his military title, Mr. Cartwright?”

The little man bristled again. “I had a wife and a son once, Mr. Crowther. A daughter too, though she is off and married now, thank the Lord. Both my wife and son were lost to me in the first years of the American Rebellion. My son was killed in Boston, and my wife took ill and died within a month of the news arriving. Captain Thornleigh knew my boy all his life. Carried him to the camp on his own shoulders, and held his hand while he died.”

Crowther thought again of the masks people wore, blended into their skins like cosmetics for the show of the day-to-day. How much more interesting people were when grief or consideration cleaned their grease-paint away.

“First thing Captain Thornleigh did when he got back was come and see me here, before he even went to his own home to change his coat. He came here to tell me Tom died like a man-something that would make any father proud.”

“That was very good of him, Joshua,” Harriet said quietly.

The man sniffed a little and nodded.

“He keeps me in mind too, even after all these years. He brought me a bottle of something from the Hall this morning with his apologies for involving me in this business. He can have a sharp tongue and rough manner at times, but he is a good soul still. And if he asked me any favor in the world, I’d do it. Not much one can do to thank a man for being there when your boy dies, and seeing he doesn’t die alone. Our Tom wouldn’t have been so scared, not with Captain Thornleigh there. So if he asks me to find him someone who’ll be thorough and cunning in his enquiries, I’ll walk to the end of the earth to do it.”

Crowther let the ice in his own voice thaw.

“So your son knew Claver Wicksteed as well?” he said.

Mr. Cartwright pulled himself together and looked up with a shrug of surprise.

“He did, yes-though there was only one mention of him in Tom’s letters. Mr. Wicksteed was not a favorite, I think. Tom thought he was a spy. He said the lads mistrusted him as he was always writing things down in his little leather books. He does so still. I’ve seen him often enough, writing away with his glass beside him in the Bear and Crown. Though he keeps more to the Hall now, than he did at first. Even Captain Thornleigh we see less of these last months.” Cartwright frowned. “Not that Wicksteed ever bothered himself to say anything to me about Tom. Probably never even realized the connection. Only cares for himself and his position.”

His voice was bitter. Harriet sipped her lemonade.

“It appears Mr. Thornleigh trusts you more than his own steward, judging by the request he made of you regarding Brook.”

Mr. Cartwright scratched a little under his ear as he considered.

“Oh, I don’t know if I could say that, Mrs. Westerman. It is most likely Captain Thornleigh just remembered that I had mentioned Brook, or a man like him in conversation.”

Harriet nodded. Crowther tilted his head on one side.

“Did you see Brook on his way to meet Mr. Thornleigh?”

Cartwright started.

“You did? Mr. Cartwright, do tell us,” Harriet said eagerly.

Mr. Cartwright looked about him with great nervousness. “How can that matter? The coroner said that it was a thief come from London who killed him. Let it rest.”

“And Nurse Bray?”

“It was a suicide, they are saying. Undoubtedly. She was no doubt depressed by being always in company with Lord Thornleigh, and if she wished to burn her papers before taking such a desperate step, then why should she not?”

“Mr. Cartwright, whatever is being said, I tell you sure as I sit here, that that poor lady was murdered,” Harriet informed him. “And it must be bound up with Brook’s death, you see? You’re probably right that any meeting you had with Brook just before his death is of no significance, but please do tell us anything you can. I pray I am wrong, but I cannot sleep easy in my bed, or think of my little boy, my sister or the baby at play with any calmness while I suspect there may be darker dealings taking place. You’re a good man and father. You would feel the same, would you not?”

The appeal to Cartwright as parent and protector was a wise one. He looked down at his knees and sighed, then seemed to make up his mind to speak.

“I did see Brook on his way into town, and spoke to him.”

“And did you observe anyone on the road behind him?” Crowther asked.

“No, sir.” Cartwright glanced at them sadly. “I am afraid I did not.”

Crowther was almost sorry himself. “And what passed between Brook and yourself?”

“He hailed me at the edge of the village, to thank me for putting some work his way. He seemed very pleased with himself.” Cartwright paused and looked about him guiltily. “He showed me the ring-said he got it while the family was out visiting neighbors. Which shows he may have boasted about it elsewhere, and to the wrong man, does it not?”

Harriet said very softly, as if she was pulling free a strand of some very delicate fiber, “Did he tell you how he got the ring?”

Cartwright resumed contemplation of his knee, and coughed a little before replying. “Said he lifted it from the man’s bureau in his parlor-from Alexander.”

Crowther’s tongue felt thick and heavy in his mouth. “And did he tell you where Alexander was?”

Cartwright looked deeply distressed.

“He had it written on a bit of paper,” he mumbled.

Harriet looked up sharply and caught Crowther’s eye.

“He waved it about, talking of the money he would get for it,” Cartwright went on. “Better than a banknote, he said. I’ve tried so hard to remember. I told Captain Thornleigh I have tried, but nothing comes. Meadow Street, perhaps-I cannot be sure.”

Crowther felt his heart thud heavily in his chest. Harriet wet her lips.

“Anything more, Joshua? Did he say anything more about Alexander?”

“Only that it had been the devil’s own work to find him. New name, new situation. He said he thought no other man in London could have done it, and that was as much by luck. Said it was my mention of Alexander being wild for music, he followed that route first. And I’d told him all I knew of Alexander-his looks, and the bad leg and all. It was that and some child he chanced upon which led him to the right place. Thought himself very smart for taking a sketch of the Thornleigh coat of arms with him too.” He looked up at them again. “It was getting late, so he took himself off. Never seen a man look so pleased with himself.”

“He was on foot?” Crowther asked.

“Yes. Must have staged down to Pulborough.” The little man looked up at them again. “I didn’t know what to say at the hearing. They didn’t ask me anything. I told Mr. Hugh afterward, though it felt like a cruelty, and Wicksteed stuck to his side throughout. It didn’t seem to add anything but salt to the problem. I wish I could see that paper in my mind more clearly.”

Crowther blinked slowly over his tented fingertips. “The mind is a mystery, Mr. Cartwright. Try not to struggle with it too much. As you go about the work of the day, let the meeting with Brook play in your imagination from time to time. You may well know more than you think.”

Cartwright looked at him hopefully. “Do you think so, sir?”

“Such things have occurred in the past.”

“It would be such a comfort to help the captain. I shall do as you say.”

They left him soon afterward, with all the proper compliments and considerations. Crowther turned back to see the draper standing lost in thought at the street door where he had showed them out. His bulging eyes were fixed on the ground, his lips moving gently as he attempted to recover those lost filaments of memory-the only things, it seemed, that now bound Alexander to Hartswood at all.