Instruments of Darkness

7

“Father,” Susan called, running back into the shop from the family parlor. She came to a sudden stop in the doorway, seeing Alexander by the shop window peering out into the street, and remembering a little too late that now she was nine she was supposed to have stopped dashing about the house like a street urchin. He turned when he heard her, and although he was frowning she thought it was not so much at her as at his own thoughts.

“Is everything well, Papa? Would you like to eat? Jane and I have made a pie!” She became serious. “Are you still fretting about your ring? I am sorry we could not find it.”

He smiled at her. “No. I have decided not to miss it and the pie sounds wonderful.” He glanced out into the square again. “I think all is well. Lord George Gordon has roused up a mob. They think giving Catholics the right to own their own property is an offense against every English Protestant and wish to stop the bill allowing it from being passed. Fools. Mr. Graves just came by to tell me that Parliament itself is under siege, but the mob should not worry us here. Does Jonathan miss the ring? I think he thought more of it than you or I.”

Some half-memory stirred in the back of Susan’s mind. The ring appeared before her, the picture on it, and something Jonathan had told her when he came back from play some days before. He had said something about a waistcoat.

Susan had just opened her mouth to tell her father this when her brother swung into the room.

“No popery! No popery!” he shouted, waving his handkerchief in the air and dashing across to their father. Alexander swung him up into his arms.

“No need to ask if you have been out at play, sir. But watch your words, young man. They cause hurt to your friends and do you no honor.” Jonathan looked a little confused and was about to question when his father shushed him. The serving girl had appeared behind them, looking anxious.

“Sir, they say the crowds are coming back from Westminster, and looking black.”

Jonathan opened his mouth to shout again-then, catching his father’s eye, shut it.

“You are worried about your people, Jane?” Alexander looked with a friendly concern at the girl.

“A little, sir. They say the crowd is heading for the fancy houses, but our religion is known, and there’s only my mother there. I’m afraid she’ll be nervous, sir.”

“Well, you must go to her. And give her our best wishes.”

Jane had begun to untie her apron as soon as the first words were out of his mouth, and spoke again in a rush.

“Thank you, sir! I’ll be back as soon as it’s quiet. Miss Susan and I have made a pie that will do for dinner, and there is cheese in the crock, and bread for supper.”

“We will manage. Go and see to your family, and come back again when you can.”

Susan looked about her unhappily. She had never seen Jane look so nervous before, and she did not like the tone of her father’s voice. Jane disappeared out into the kitchen and away, and Alexander crossed over and put a hand on his daughter’s shoulder.

“Don’t fret, little woman. Just silly people making a lot of noise and trouble for their entertainment. We’re safe enough. Now let’s go and try this remarkable pie of yours.”

Crowther and Harriet were walking up to the French windows that gave onto the main lawn, when they heard a sharp slap and a child’s cry of surprise. Crowther looked to Harriet, who hurried over the last few steps to the house. He followed. As they stepped into the room, Crowther saw Rachel, her cheeks flushed, holding a boy of about five by the arm and vigorously shaking him. There was already a red mark rising on the little boy’s cheek and he was clutching a paintbrush in his free hand. Rachel’s voice, as she spoke, was quavering and hot.

“Stephen, you naughty boy! How could you?” The boy caught sight of Harriet in the doorway and, shaking himself free, ran over to her and buried his face in her skirts, crying lustily. Miss Trench saw them both and gave a start. She held out her arms to Harriet in appeal.

“Oh Harry, I am sorry. I did not mean to, but he has painted black marks all over my picture just out of badness-and it was just as I wanted it!”

Harriet knelt to better embrace the boy and, having removed the dangerous brush from his hand, she handed it wordlessly to Crowther and stroked her son’s hair. His crying slowed a little. He put his face into her neck and mumbled something between sobs.

“What is it, Stephen? I can’t hear you,” Harriet asked him softly, still not looking at her sister.

“Crows. She forgot the crows,” he said, then his voice rising to a bitter wail, “I was helping!” He tucked his face into Harriet’s neck again, his small hands gripping the collar of her riding dress in determined fistfuls.

Rachel looked more stricken than ever. Crowther remained in the shadows of the drapery, as if Harriet’s curtains might provide some protection from the emotions flying around the room like the Chinese fireworks at Vauxhall. He looked down at the dirty brush between his fingers.

Harriet waited until the little boy was calmer and spoke to him gently.

“Perhaps Aunt Rachel did not want crows in her picture, Stephen. Have you thought of that? You would not like it if she painted all your soldiers yellow, now would you? Even if she thought they looked better that way.”

The little boy’s sobs stopped suddenly, and he pulled away from his mother as he considered this horrid possibility. He shook his head. She took his small face in her hands and smiled at him, then kissed him on his hot smooth forehead.

“Well, you do not seem much hurt, young man. Apologize to your aunt and perhaps she will not paint on your things in revenge.”

Stephen shot a glance toward Rachel, then walked carefully over to her.

“I’m sorry, Aunt. I thought it would look nicer with crows.” He thought for a moment and extended his hand. Rachel knelt down and took it with great seriousness.

“I didn’t realize you were helping, Stephen. And I am very sorry to have been so cross. May we be friends again?”

“You won’t paint my soldiers yellow, then? Because they should all wear red coats.” She shook her head. Crowther found he was smiling a little, and stepped clear of the curtains. Stephen grinned with relief and pounced forward to kiss his aunt on the cheek, then struggling free from her embrace, turned and started with surprise as he caught sight of Crowther hovering in the doorway behind his mother and twisting the brush between his fingers.

“Who are you, sir?”

“I am Gabriel Crowther.”

The little boy considered for a moment, then his eyes widened considerably.

“Do you eat children, sir?”

Crowther stooped slightly from the waist, till he had brought his thin body to the point where he could look the little boy in the eye.

“Not as often as I would like.”

Stephen looked at him with awe and pleasure, thrusting one small fist to his mouth. He then announced to the world in general that Mrs. Heathcote had made cake and he would be allowed to eat the crumbs from the tin, and raced out of the room. Harriet stood and smiled at Crowther, then, her eyes growing more serious, she turned to her sister.

“I’m so sorry, Harriet. I didn’t mean, I-”

Harriet looked irritated, and held up her hand. “This is not like you, Rachel.”

Miss Trench flushed red. “I have been more upset than I know. There was a moment when I heard of the body when I thought …”

Harriet put the heel of her hand to her forehead for a moment, then moved across the room to take her sister’s arm and lead her to a chair.

“Oh Rachel, I’m so sorry. It never occurred to me … Then I was unkind to you. You must have wished us all to the devil.”

Rachel shook her head. “It was stupid, and only for a moment.” She glanced up at where Crowther hung awkwardly in the background. “I’m sorry you have seen me display such a temper, sir. I am ashamed.”

Her sister laughed. “Oh, I’ve said at least seven shocking things to him this morning myself, Rachel. Have I not, Mr. Crowther? He could blacken us across the county if he has a mind. But then, as Mr. Crowther hardly moves in society at all, he can do no more damage to our reputations than we do ourselves. Please, take a seat, sir.”

Rachel looked across at Crowther as he sat, placing the brush gingerly in a vase on the side table.

“Still, I am sorry you were witness to my bad behavior, sir. I trust you will try not to think ill of me, and I rely, as my sister does, on your discretion.”

Crowther felt the warmth of her eyes and voice like a benediction; to the family good looks present in the elder sister was added real feminine grace. The girl’s hair was more honey than her sister’s, though the sunlight caught the fire in it and made it shine. Her eyes were the same green as Harriet’s. Softened a little, and a little wider perhaps, but their close kinship was obvious. She was a little thinner than she should be, but it gave her a delicacy that Crowther had already noted as rather lacking in Mrs. Westerman. The younger woman still had the freshly unwrapped softness of youth in her skin. She looked as if she had, as yet, suffered no rough weather. Again, she could not be ranked as a remarkable beauty, but he felt his old character of connoisseur of women stir in his breast.

“Till death, ma’am.”

Harriet raised her eyebrows. “Well, let’s hope that will not be necessary, sir.” Crowther squirmed a little on his chair. “Now Rachel, could you tell me if you have hidden Squire Bridges somewhere in the house?”

Rachel gave a slight choking laugh under her breath.

“He’s in the library finishing his letters. We should dine shortly or we will annoy Cook and Mrs. Heathcote. She so loves the squire, I think the whole of the storeroom is coming to table, and it will be all the worse for us if it is spoiled.” She turned toward Crowther and continued: “Will you be joining us, sir? We dine quite informally and you’ll be most welcome.”

Crowther felt that somehow, and by doing very little, he had made himself a touch ridiculous.

“I fear not, Miss Trench, though I thank you for the invitation. I dine at a later hour and at home.”

Harriet did not turn toward him, but said nevertheless, with a slightly bored tone that suggested she found these society shufflings rather wearying, “Please let us persuade you, Mr. Crowther. The squire will certainly dine with us, and I would be glad to talk further on your impressions of what has passed.”

Mr. Crowther felt Miss Trench’s encouraging smile on him and, bowing as best he could from his perch on the edge of one of Harriet’s neatly upholstered chairs, he accepted the invitation.

“I will tell Mrs. Heathcote,” Rachel said, giving him a slight curtsy as she stood and hurried out of the room. Crowther could hear the rapid scuff of her shoes on the flagstones of the passageway while the door was still closing; she was running as if she were still a girl.

Harriet rose and walked up to an elegant desk at one end of the narrow salon, where she began to glance through some of the correspondence neatly piled upon it. Crowther realized that this room must be her main place of business as well as leisure. It suited her, he thought, being pleasant and practical, but without the profusion of frills and fancies that Crowther had found oppressive in many feminine apartments. The room was long and well lit from the garden; the furniture was modern and practical but showed taste. The wall behind the desk was lined with volumes bound in brown leather, and the little objets d’art collected on the sidetables and above the mantel were interesting and well chosen for the spaces they occupied. Her husband had obviously collected a deal of prize money as well as household staff on his voyages, and delivered his wealth to a careful manager. Harriet put the papers back down on her desk with a sigh.

“Nothing of importance here, I think. Well then, sir. Shall we dine?”

Normally when the shop bell rang while they were at table, Jane would go into the public room and let them know if the master was required. Since she had now left for her parents’ home, Susan leaped to her feet when they heard the bright brass chime in the parlor and dashed into the shop before her father could put down his napkin.

She had forgotten about the yellow-faced man. He closed the shop door carefully behind him and pulled down the blind, then turned toward her with the same unpleasant smile of the morning. She came to a sudden stop in front of him. He took a step forward and bent down to her.

“And what is your name, young lady?” His breath smelled like Shambles Lane where the butchers threw the meat that had spoiled.

“Susan Adams.” This seemed to amuse him.

“Adams, is it? That’s charming, charming. And is your father at home, Susan Adams, and your little brother?”

“Can I help you, sir?”

Susan turned to see her father, his coat off and his eyes severe, coming into the room. He came up behind her and gently moved her out of the way. She slunk gratefully behind him a little, glad he kept his hand on her shoulder.

The man looked deep into her father’s eyes for what seemed a very long time, before saying, “I believe you can, sir. I was told to give you a message from the Hall.”

Susan saw the man move, and heard her father grunt as he did sometimes when picking up a bundle of scores. He pressed down suddenly on her shoulder and she stumbled under his weight; they landed heavily on the floor together. She struggled to sit, and looked up in confusion. The man was standing over them, still smiling. He was holding something in his hand she had not noticed before, red and wet. She could hear her father breathing hard, ragged. She turned to him; his hand was pressed to his side where he had been struck, his eyes wide with surprise. She looked up again at the yellow man for explanation. The man looked back.

“Stay easy, child. It’ll all be over soon enough.”

She could not move, but her hand found her father’s and she felt it grip her own. Jonathan, bored at being left so long, wandered into the doorway.

“May I eat the pie crust if you do not want it, Papa?”

The yellow man looked up quickly and smiled his twisting smile. Susan thought he must be very old. His skin was deeply cracked, like porcelain badly repaired. The hat he wore low over his wig was greasy and shone in places.

“Hello, Puppy! Come over here and see us a moment.” There was an urgency in his voice now. Susan tried to open her mouth, her voice was whispering.

“No, Jonathan.”

“Now, don’t you listen to your mean old sister, my boy. Come when your betters tell you to.”

Susan could not see her brother, she could only watch the glint of the man’s eyes. Without taking them from the little boy, the yellow man wiped his knife on the inside of his coat. Susan felt her heart throb as if for the last time.

Just then, the brass bell rang again, and Mr. Graves walked in with his usual quick step.

“Alexander!” he said excitedly. “You won’t believe the progress of the mob. They are making an attempt on-Good God! What is this?”

The yellow man gave a yell of rage, and spun round toward the door. Susan saw Graves start toward him, blocking his way; the yellow man’s arm swung up in a wide arc, and Mr. Graves staggered back, falling onto his side. The yellow man ran out into the street; the door rattled behind him. Jonathan began to scream. Graves struggled onto his knees and crawled over to Susan and Alexander.

“Dear God! Dear God! Alexander!”

Susan looked down at her father again, and saw a red alien bloom across his waistcoat, just where their clasped hands lay; even his cravat was stained and that had been clean on this morning. Jane would complain at the extra work.

Mr. Graves groaned, then looked up at her. “Susan? Susan! Listen to me! Are you hurt?”

His face had a long thin slice of red across it, beaded here and there like jewels on a string. He grabbed her shoulders and shook her.

“Are you hurt, girl?”

She looked at him in surprise. He seemed a very long way away. Jonathan was hysterical. She must keep him quiet or he would wake Mama, and she needed her rest very much now. She shook her head. He held her gaze.

“I’m going to fetch a surgeon. Lock the door behind me, and only open it for me, you understand. For me!” He turned to the crying boy. “Jonathan, go and fetch water for your papa.”

He put his hand on Alexander’s shoulder. “Don’t move. No! For God’s sake-don’t try to speak, man.”

Alexander tried to lift a hand. His stertorous breathing formed into words. The two men looked at each other.

“Care for them, Graves.”

“I swear it. Now …” he stood and dragged Susan to her feet, forcing her to let go of her father’s hand, which made her yelp in protest like a kicked dog. He held her shoulders again, and looking her straight in the eye, said: “Come to the door, Susan. And lock it behind me.” She managed to nod. “And remember: you must not open the door again to anyone till I get back. Will you remember that?”

She nodded again and he pulled her to the door, waiting outside, his eyes wild with impatience till he heard the lock being turned, then set off down the narrow street at a run.

Susan watched him go, almost wondering why he ran so fast, then turned back to her father. She dropped on the floor beside him and gently lifted his head onto her knee. She tried to give him a little of the water Jonathan had brought from the table, weeping whenever he spilled a drop in his hurry. It was difficult, for her hands were all slippery and red, but she thought a little went in between her father’s lips. Jonathan burrowed into her side, and Susan shifted a little so he could get close to her. When she moved she was sorry to see the red had become a pool and her own dress, and Jonathan’s breeches were steeped in it. She set down the water glass and with great care took her father’s hand again. Jonathan took the other. Alexander’s breathing became more ragged still, and slower. He forced his eyes open and swallowed.

“Susan …”

She did not move. Everything was very far away, as it is just before sleep. The world swam in and out of existence around her. She stroked her father’s hair. It had become disarranged when he fell, and he thought it always so important to be neat.

“Susan …” His voice was so deep, it hardly sounded like him at all. “Listen … there is a black wooden box under the counter, hidden under the Bononcini scores.” He paused and shut his eyes again. The breaths were single gasps now. Susan continued to stroke his hair. His eyes opened again, and fixed on hers. “You must take it with you wherever you go … Talk about what you find in it with Mr. Graves.” Again he closed his eyes, again the sucking gulp of air. Stuff trickled from the corner of his mouth, red and thick. Jonathan began to cry again and hid his eyes. “Do not blame me, Susan …”

She did not speak, but continued to stroke his hair. A memory came back to her of lying ill in bed as a child. She remembered the cool of her mother’s hand smoothing her forehead and her singing to her. Her father gasped again, and a tremor ran through him; she felt her hand held almost painfully tight, then his grip suddenly relaxed. Jonathan gulped, and looked up at her.

“Shush, Jonathan. Papa needs to rest.” She wet her lips, and never ceasing to smooth her father’s hair, began to sing in a cracked and whispering voice:

Will you sleep now, my little child?

For the sky is growing dark.

Will you sleep now, my lovely child?

For the sky is growing dark.

She was careful of her word, and would not let anyone into the shop until Mr. Graves returned a quarter of an hour later with a surgeon panting and complaining behind him. When he arrived he had to fight his way through a crowd of the concerned citizenry who had gathered in the doorway, having heard the shouts and seen men running. They were pressed to the plate glass of the window, staring and exclaiming at the sight of the straight back of the little girl, who knelt with her brother in a seemingly shoreless pool of their father’s blood, stroking his hair and murmuring lullabies.