Instruments of Darkness

9

“We must see the squire.” Crowther spoke quietly, but Thornleigh’s senior footman had begun to look uncomfortable.

“He is at table, and we have orders that no one from Caveley-or you, Mr. Crowther-are to be admitted to this house.” His orders did not seem to make him happy. He turned toward Michaels and straightened a little. “You, we would not admit in any circumstances.”

Michaels smiled at him and rested his fists on his waist.

“Foolish of you to let us into your hallway, in that case.”

Out of the corner of her eye Harriet noticed the maid who had first opened the door and fallen back to let them enter blush and take a step back. The footman’s eyes traveled the same way.

“That was an error,” he said stiffly.

Michaels looked entirely at his ease.

“Well, if any of you fancy lads want to try and throw us out, good luck to you, that’s all I can say.” He flexed his massive hands.

Crowther sighed. “We must see the squire,” he repeated.

They were shown into the Great Hall to await the party who were dining and found Hugh already there, slumped in front of the empty fire with a carafe at his side. He looked up at them, his eyes already rather dull.

“What? More corpses?”

Harriet made her way awkwardly over to the other armchair and let herself down into it. Hugh watched her for a few seconds, then realizing she was not going to speak, asked grudgingly, “What happened to you?”

She looked directly at him.

“Wicksteed paid a couple of lads to knock Crowther and me flying in Pulborough earlier today. I hurt my ankle.” Hugh looked confused. She explained, as one might to a rather simple child: “He has demanded that I leave Caveley, my husband and my children. He is showing me what to expect if I do not comply.”

Hugh shifted in his chair and murmured something no one could make out. He was not asked to repeat himself.

Crowther looked down at the younger man.

“Did you know your father is being tortured, Captain Thornleigh?”

Hugh’s eyes struggled to focus.

“Tortured? What do you mean?”

Crowther stared at him for a moment, then turned away as if the sight disgusted him.

“He has been cut. Someone is making him atone for his sins, we think. And perhaps yours.”

Hugh went rather pale, but before he could produce any reply the grand doors were swung open and the party from the table came into the room. Wicksteed and Lady Thornleigh were arm in arm, the squire bobbing in their wake. Harriet had to admit they made a very handsome couple. They looked, both of them, vigorous and aware of their powers. Their dark colorings complemented one another, and Wicksteed had seemed to acquire a grace and control in his movements, as if that animal power had transmitted itself through the perfect arm that rested over his. Only an unhealthy glitter in their eyes, and the strange dark cloud they dragged with them, made them unattractive. Harriet felt her skin creep, and wondered if Squire Bridges were choking in the wrongs that streamed behind them both like smoke.

Lady Thornleigh released Wicksteed’s arm and made her way to the long oak trestle table that split the hall in two, resting her hand on the wood. Her dress rustled against it. She smiled at them lazily. Harriet blinked her green eyes, unwillingly drinking in all that beauty glowing under the ancient arms and portraits of the Thornleigh family. The woman looked at each of them in turn before she spoke.

“Well?”

Crowther bowed to her. “We are here to speak to Squire Bridges, Lady Thornleigh.”

My lady arched one eyebrow and looked at her guest. Bridges took a blustering step or two forward.

“Anything you wish to say, you may say in front of these good people, sir.”

Harriet did not quite manage to stifle a bitter laugh that rose in her throat. Wicksteed looked at her angrily. Crowther nodded to the squire.

“Very well. I shall give you the story. You were right, Bridges, about the murder of Sarah Randle. It was indeed Lord Thornleigh who killed her for her pregnancy or his own pleasure, and for whatever reason of his own, he took her locket. Some years later, Hugh’s mother found it, and was thrown down the stairs for her trouble.”

The squire was open-mouthed. Hugh shrank back into his armchair as if stung. So Shapin had told him. Wicksteed was very pale. Lady Thornleigh silently drummed her fingers on the table, looking at the floor, and apparently rather bored. Crowther continued.

“Hugh Thornleigh was told as much in America by the former servant of this house, Shapin. And I suspect Claver Wicksteed overheard. What happened to him, by the way, Mr. Thornleigh?” Hugh seemed struck dumb and Crowther noticed a tight smile on Wicksteed’s face. “You killed him yourself, didn’t you? Is that the murder you are willing to hang for now?”

The squire lifted his hands. “I really must protest. How dare-?”

Wicksteed spun round on him. “Shut up, Bridges.”

The squire recoiled in shock. Crowther nodded to Harriet. She continued.

“Wicksteed, you blackmailed your way into this house, knowing both its masters were sickening.” Some last vestige of sympathy was present in her face as she said this, looking at Hugh. “You had Hugh, but when he saw your friendship with Lady Thornleigh developing, he made one last struggle and asked Joshua Cartwright to find someone to track down Alexander Thornleigh. In doing so, he gave you a chance to make your hold here complete. You murdered Brook in my copse, stole the address he had provided for Hugh, and sent a hireling of your own to rid Thornleigh of the only heir not under your control.” She looked up at him. “When did you find out it was Alexander who had sent Nurse Bray to care for Lord Thornleigh?”

Hugh struggled upright in his chair, and looked about him amazed. Wicksteed did not move. Harriet shrugged.

“She wrote a note to Hugh and you found it, did you not? Just as you found Brook’s note to him? I doubt any piece of paper has crossed these halls without you taking a look at it since you arrived. Perhaps she tried to speak to Hugh, and you intervened. In any case you removed her, and for good measure you sent Hugh off with the arsenic to poor Joshua, to make sure that no news of Alexander’s whereabouts could be found, and to put his head in the noose for your crimes.” She gave a little laugh. “And while you are causing all this slaughter you are campaigning with the College of Arms to have your name and heritage recognized! Presumably you wish to marry Lady Thornleigh when she becomes a widow. I am sure if Lord Thornleigh survives to see Hugh hang, he will not live long thereafter. You have already carved a score of the bodies mounted up into his arms. No doubt the final mark will be for his own murder.”

Wicksteed colored a little at these last words. Then he walked across the room to where Lady Thornleigh still lounged against the trestle, took her hand and pressed it to his lips with great delicacy. She gazed into his eyes, and for a moment every other person in the room felt that strange exclusion in the presence of two people who see only each other. Harriet watched them; there was something perfect about them in that moment and part of her was jealous.

Then Wicksteed straightened, and turned back to them, his voice soft and even.

“You cannot prove anything. And no one will listen to the ravings of a madwoman who has deserted her family, and the brother of a patricide.” He sneered at Harriet. “You saw my arms during our interesting chat in your woods the other day. Where are the marks of Nurse Bray’s hands which you insisted would be there? You are storytellers, that is all.”

Michaels shifted out of the shadows behind Harriet’s chair.

“Oh, a fair amount of it can be proved, Claver.”

Wicksteed looked vaguely amused. “You dare call me by my Christian name?”

“I dare call you a murderous dog, Claver,” the big man told him.

Wicksteed laughed, and swung his hand in Lady Thornleigh’s; she smiled up at him warmly.

“I always liked you, Michaels,” Wicksteed said. “Why don’t you come and stand with us? I could make you a rich man. Why cast your lot in with them?” He nodded toward Crowther and Harriet. “They may be civil to you, but they will always expect you to stand while they sit, and never ask why that should be.”

“We shall see, Claver,” Michaels said calmly. “But for all your smarts-and I’m not saying you aren’t a sharp lad-I know something you do not.”

Crowther could see the tension appear in Wicksteed’s face; it pulsed just under his jawline. Michaels nodded to Crowther, who waited till he could feel the tension in the room like a beat on a distant drum.

“You have miscalculated. Lady Thornleigh’s son is not the only heir. Alexander had two children-a boy and a girl. Both legitimate and recorded under their true names. Both safe and under good supervision in London. Your murderer failed to cut off the line, and is dead himself.”

Hugh leaped to his feet and at once stumbled to his knees in front of Harriet.

“It is true? He had children? They live?”

He looked up at her, his face a pattern of confused joy. She put out her hand and touched his cheek.

“They live, and are well, and have precedence. The Hall will be theirs. And we can prove Wicksteed arranged for the murder of their father. He wrote a letter, and it will hang him.” Her tone was soft, comforting.

Crowther turned to Wicksteed. The latter had dropped Lady Thornleigh’s hand and looked at the flagstones in front of him. His hands closed into fists at his sides. There was a laugh, and Harriet twisted to see Lady Thornleigh, her body trembling. She put her hand up to the jewels in her hair and began to tear them out, throwing them to the stone floor of the hall.

“Then they should have this, and this!”

Wicksteed tried to grab hold of her wrists but she tore away from him and spun round the far end of the table. Her lazy humor had evaporated; her body seemed to thrill, lit within with rage.

“Poor old yellow-faced Moore!” she said. “Who killed him? God, there were enough times he was selling me on the streets when I wished I could have stuck a knife in him, but I was only twelve, and he seemed as indestructible as a god!” She laughed again. “Now he’s dead! Burning in hell, just as I always knew he would! Oh, I shall go down there now and pull his hair for playing us such a trick!”

Wicksteed seemed to startle awake and tried to reach her, his face white and sweating.

“My love! Dear God! Say nothing.”

Lady Thornleigh pulled the diamonds from around her throat and sent them skimming across the floor, where they came to rest at Crowther’s feet.

“Take ’em! Clever boy! Justice be done! Get away from me, Claver. It’s done and I will speak.”

She looked wild-eyed into Harriet’s pale face.

“What? You thought I just sat here and let Claver do my work for me?” Her loose hair curled over her bare shoulders. “It was old Moore, the bastard was a hundred even then, who sold me to my first old man before I could even bleed-though he made me, and others after. I knew who to turn to when Claver got that note out of Brook’s hand. And you think those wounds on Thornleigh are for his sad, pretty wife and his servant?” Her voice rose. “What do I care about them? No, they are for the little girls like me, younger even than I was, who he raped in London since I knew him. Almost every week he’d have some poor kid brought to him, always dark, always in a plain gray dress to remind him of his first love-just as I did once. I used to see them being bundled out of the back of my fancy house afterward, crying and stumbling-and I’d get pearls for my silence. I’ve worn that locket! Each of us did. Perhaps he even put it around his wife’s neck. She was a young one too when he got hold of her, I hear. He knew I’d be waiting to pay him back! But he never suspected I’d have the chance. It amused him to have a whore who hated him as a wife. He never dreamed he’d be cowering under my knife.”

She stared up at Crowther again; she had bitten her lip and the blood welled up in her mouth. Her voice dropped a little.

“Wonderful, isn’t it, Crowther, how the flesh gives and opens under a blade?”

Harriet looked at her. “You helped kill Nurse Bray.”

Lady Thornleigh lifted her hand to the shoulder of her dress and tore the sleeve open at the seam. Across the soft white of her upper arm were four deep scratches, just beginning to heal. Crowther thought of the paper in his pocket. He could tell they were a perfect match even at this distance.

“She came to me! To tell me she thought she might know where Alexander was-though she never mentioned the children, I’ll give her that. She said she thought it best to speak to the woman of the house. Lord knows, that has always been Hugh!” Lady Thornleigh groaned and spun around on her heel. “We burned all her papers! How did you know about the children?”

Harriet’s voice was trembling as she replied.

“She made a will. She left a cameo brooch to Alexander’s little girl.”

The groan became a laugh again, and my lady tore the jeweled bands from her wrists.

“All of this! All of this lost, for a cheap cameo!”

Wicksteed managed to reach her and seized her. “Stop! Stop! Jemima, why do you give yourself away? My love! Think of your son! Eustache! Please, my darling-stop.”

She seemed to grow suddenly calm at his touch. She lifted one hand to his face, and with her thumb wiped away the tear from his cheek.

“Oh, Claver. I have buried two children, given away another. What should I care for that runt of Thornleigh’s, unless he could do you good?”

Claver let his head drop to her shoulder. She rocked and shushed him, letting the fingers play at the back of his neck where his dark hair touched his collar.

“It’s all over, my darling.” Claver dropped his head toward her and kissed her mouth hungrily. She slipped her hand into his waistcoat pocket as they embraced. “But I can do one last thing for you. I shall not let them hang you.” She smiled very softly. “‘ Thumb on the blade, boy, and strike up.’” He pulled away from her a little, confused. Harriet saw her remove her hand from his pocket, saw a twist in her wrist, an evil flash in the air. .

“Crowther! She has his knife!”

Wicksteed turned toward Harriet as if unsure what was happening. Before Michaels or Crowther could hurl themselves at the couple, Lady Thornleigh threw her arm back and forward again.

“Jemima?” His tone was one of surprise, then he fell forward on his knees at her feet, his forehead resting on the silk of her skirts. She let her free hand rest briefly on his head, as a woman might pet a child or lapdog, then stepped back, shaking her lovely head slightly. She turned and began to run from the room, the knife still in her hand. As she passed her, Harriet reached out from her chair to try and stop her. As her hand closed on the rich fabric of her dress, Harriet fell forward, Lady Thornleigh stumbled, turned and saw Harriet clinging on to her. For a brief moment, Harriet looked into her eyes: they were black and dilated. And then she was up again, pulling herself free as a country girl does from a bramble, and fled the room.

Hugh came to himself and went to lift Harriet back to her feet. She managed to stand. The squire stood white and shaking, unable to comprehend what had happened in front of him. Michaels lifted Wicksteed under his arms as if he were a toy and placed him almost tenderly on the oak table. Crowther joined him. As Harriet looked to where they stood over Wicksteed, the body on the table groaned and shuddered. Crowther caught her eye and shook his head, though he had taken off his coat and was trying to staunch the flow of blood with it. Servants came at a run from within and were sent for linen and water. As Crowther worked, he could feel the body dying under him. At the last, he chanced to look into Wicksteed’s deep black eyes. The man had turned to fix them on the arms of Thornleigh Hall, and he was smiling at them as his last breath rasped and faded.

Harriet was not sure if what she was seeing or hearing was real. The cries of “Fire!” were repeated many times before the sense of it reached her.

Other servants were tumbling into the hall. Michaels strode into the midst of them.

“What? Where?”

The footman who had tried to deny them entry came running down the grand stairway.

“In the state rooms and above. Everything is aflame! Everything! My lady will not come down! She has her son!”

Michaels began to tear up the stairway, Crowther and Hugh on his heels. Harriet dragged herself after them, pausing by the footman as he reached the base of the stairs, hissing with the pain of her ankle.

“Get the people out,” she instructed him. “We’ll go after her.”

Crowther turned to Hugh as they reached the level of the state rooms.

“Thornleigh, your father!”

He nodded and raced ahead of them. Michaels and Crowther paused on the main stair. They heard a laugh, and a cry. Smoke billowed along the corridor in front of them-already the flames raced along the draperies and sucked at the ceiling above their heads. A maid stood in front of them like a guardian to the flames.

“She has locked herself in her room with little Master Eustache! I have not got a key!”

Michaels turned back and raced down the stairs again. Crowther turned to the girl.

“Go-get out.”

The maid paused, then screamed as one of the windows cracked behind her and sparks showered across them. Crowther threw his weight against the door, but it would not yield. Harriet reached his side and they heard the high wailing of a child in the room. Crowther looked at her.

“You should not be here.”

Their eyes met, and he did not ask again.

Michaels came stumbling toward them, a bunch of keys in his hand. Crowther tied his cravat across his mouth and nose, and Harriet pulled out her handkerchief and did the same. Michaels tried two keys-neither fitted. He cursed, then throwing the keys to the floor, he hurled his whole weight at the lock. Harriet staggered back, and again Michaels and Crowther threw themselves forward. There was a splintering of wood. Michaels kicked hard and the door gave. Clouds of smoke belched out, making Harriet’s lungs burn. She turned her face away, coughing violently.

“Lady Thornleigh. Give us the child!” Crowther called into darkness.

A window cracked, and Harriet could see a figure lying prone on the floor, with a little boy kneeling above her. She limped in, the pain in her leg forgotten, and grabbed up the little boy. He fought her, shouting for his mama, but Harriet would not let him go, and began to drag and carry him from the room and down the stairs. She looked up, and where the staircase climbed she could see fresh flames licking from the upper stories. The earls of Sussex remained immobile in their portraits all down the stairs, watching as the fire tasted the corners of their canvas. At that moment, the fire bit through the wood of the upper balcony, and the stairs groaned.

“Crowther! Michaels!”

They were behind her, Michaels holding Lady Thornleigh in his arms like a doll.

Crowther looked up the stairs.

“Go!” he shouted. “I must help Hugh.” Harriet began to protest, but he commanded, “Now!” And turned to run up the stairs into the inferno above.

Harriet and Michaels staggered through the hallway and down the steps into the drive and the open air. Fire danced at the windows of every room in the east wing. Michaels laid his burden on the gravel, and Harriet set down the little boy. He threw himself on his mother’s body and began to bawl. Lady Thornleigh did not move, and Harriet could see no sign of breath coming from her. There was blood on the woman’s chest: she had found another use for her knife. The little boy tried to pull her arm over him. Whatever had held Harriet upright till now gave way, and she collapsed to her knees amongst the cries and lamentations of the household.

Crowther found Hugh on the upper corridor, Lord Thornleigh insensible in his arms. A beam had fallen, flaming between them. Crowther kicked it away, and Hugh hobbled toward him, retching.

“Come on!”

They made it to the level of the state rooms, where the fire now seemed to rage at its fiercest. Hugh looked to Crowther.

“We can only go through! Run!”

They leaped forward. Crowther felt the air burning around him, the heat on his face so fierce he felt it would brand him. He somehow got to the bottom of the stairs and looked back, Hugh was on the half-landing, his father’s body in his arms, looking around at his flaming relatives like a child caught in a cathedral.

“Hugh! Move!”

He heard another groan in the timbers above him and looked up. Hugh was halfway toward him now, picking up pace. He heard his own name called and saw Michaels racing back into the house toward him. A crack and he looked up again at the fresco of Lord Thornleigh and his family at Judgment Day. Time seemed to slow. The depiction of Hell on the fresco was now smoldering. The young Lord Thornleigh painted in all his glory looked down on his own dirty and bloodied wreck of a body with his usual look of cool, sensuous disdain. Another groan and crack, and even as he felt Michaels’s arms grab his shoulders, Crowther watched in horrid fascination as the fresco gave way over father and son and began to fall, leaving a heaven of dark flames. Then everything went black.