“Mr. Crowther has been wondering at your continued employment of Mr. Fitzraven after he ceased to play for you.”
A slight frown appeared between Mr. Harwood’s fine sandy eyebrows. “I believe I have already explained, Mrs. Westerman—”
“Indeed,” Crowther interrupted, “running errands, writing puffs in the newspaper and so forth. But I have been wondering, Mr. Harwood, if you did not find it convenient, dealing with the great individuals on and off the stage, to know a little more about them than it was agreeable to ask in person.”
Mr. Harwood’s face gave no sign of shock or anger. Harriet found she was holding her breath. If Fitzraven had followed the leading players of the opera around the place with Harwood’s blessing, it would give them meat indeed for Mr. Palmer. Fitzraven was quite possibly trained in the value—the monetary value—of information before he went to France, and had no difficulty with trading in it.
“You are suggesting . . . ?”
“I am suggesting that Fitzraven spied for you, Mr. Harwood,” Crowther continued. “You knew his reputation to be bad, but he was obviously of some use to you, even before his miraculous delivery of Miss Marin and Manzerotti. I think you made use for your own purposes of his love of finding out the details of the lives of those influential or renowned beings with whom he came into contact.”
There was a long pause. Very few men had the courage to remain so calm under Crowther’s eye. Mr. Harwood would be a remarkable opponent at the card table.
“You are very blunt, sir.”
Through the closed door to the library the small sounds of the household filtered; a living thing. One of the servants moving through the passageway. A door upstairs opening and closing. Lady Susan was practicing at the harpsichord before retiring; its soft voice curled down the main stair and whispered sweetly under the door.
“Mr. Harwood,” Harriet said, “if Fitzraven was bringing you information about the personalities in your establishment, we would like to know. How you manage the opera is your concern, but if he found something in his wanderings after your employees and patrons and that knowledge led to his death . . .”
Mr. Harwood pursed his lips and looked into the fire. Then nodded.
“The arrangement was unofficial and unacknowledged,” he said. Harriet felt her breathing steady. “I may look to the world like a little king in His Majesty’s, but in truth I merely preside over a number of rather independent baronies. The costumers, the singers, the musicians, the magicians of stage machinery, the house poets . . . all have their areas of responsibility and expertise, and all compete. Fitzraven would come and see me from time to time, with one tidbit of information or another. It has helped me avoid some minor problems in the past, and take advantage of some small opportunities at others.”
“I see. For example?” Crowther’s voice was dry.
“Aside from making use of the petty jealousies within the theater, it becomes a great deal easier to renegotiate the arrangements for a singer’s benefit if you know he has lost a large sum at cards the previous evening.” Harwood met Crowther’s gaze evenly. He neither defied judgment, nor invited it.
“And you paid for this service?”
“It was usual that having delivered his information, Fitzraven would ask me for some small loan. Those loans were never repaid.”
“And have you made many small loans to him this season since he returned from the continent?”
“No, Mr. Crowther. I was rather surprised, I admit, to find this the case, but since he came back from the continent I have not made one.”
Jocasta had fed the boys with meal and milk, then Finn and Clayton had headed out into the dark looking warmer and brighter for the feeding. Clayton had a place he was sharing in one of the ruined houses in Whitechapel, and Finn always slept in a couple of barns he knew off the Islington Road. He’d never slept in a proper bed. “Don’t think I’d like it, Mrs. Bligh,” he’d said. “I like to have some space about me, and a clear run at the fields. Being inside makes me jittery.” They told her they’d call by the next day and see if she had work for them, then made their way out into the inky blackness of the alleys. She saw the want in Sam’s face though, the little scrap, and gave him a nod. He went out with the others, but ten minutes later was slipping back in through the door like the shadow of a cat, and curled himself up in a corner away from the fire. It was as if he didn’t want to be blamed for stealing the heat of it.
Jocasta didn’t sleep so soon, and Boyo kept her company on the couch. She pulled at his ears and watched the fire burn out, then stood to fetch Sam’s blanket and drop it over him. Strange how already she thought of it as his own. All she could see though was the rock with that blond wisp jammed to it. It would have been quick anyway.
She must have dozed, because something woke her, and she could tell by the taste of the night air creeping in that it was coming up to dawn again. Boyo had been woken too and was looking at the door. He was rearing up against the coverings of the couch, his ears flat and teeth bared, and a low growl starting in the back of his throat. Jocasta frowned, then stood slowly and crossed the room. The latch lifted odd, strangely reluctant under her thumb. She pulled it open, letting more shadows tumble into the room to pile on the heaps of grays already curled around her bed and spilling out from the cold grate of the fireplace. There were a pair of rats, quite dead with their little white teeth showing, slung on a bit of string and hooked around the latch on the outside of her door. Someone had gone to the trouble of tying a noose around each furry throat and pulling it tight. The hallway was empty, and the only noise in the house was the quiet of its people sleeping.
Jocasta threw the bodies into the stink heap in the yard and looked about her. Nothing but the shake of the pear tree, old man Hopps coughing in his sleep in the front room opposite, a light footstep out on St. Martin’s Lane. The little corpses were still warm.
PART V
1
TUESDAY, 20 NOVEMBER 1781
Rachel knew she had upset her elder sister, and however right she believed herself to be, it was in her nature to feel guilty as a result. At breakfast the following morning she fetched her sister coffee and toast and handed her her letters with careful naturalness. She did not dare smile yet, but neither did she frown. Harriet accepted this as an apology, and by thanking her sister gently, but without meeting her eye, made her own.
Lady Susan and Mrs. Service grinned at each other when they thought they were unobserved, and Stephen Westerman and the Earl of Sussex were aware enough of the pleasantly warming atmosphere to start chasing each other around the table until the threat to my lord’s china made Mrs. Service speak rather sharply to them.
The first letter Harriet opened made her give a little cry of delight. Graves had just walked into the room and was peering under the covers in hopes of warm eggs. He almost dropped the lid from his hand.
“Some good news, Mrs. Westerman?” he asked, juggling the silverware.
“Very,” said Harriet, and looked about the table. All those older than ten looked back. “This note is from the good Dr. Trevelyan. It is not about James, dear heart,” she said to her sister, seeing a frown of concern on Rachel’s face. “It is about Miss Marin’s old singing teacher, Theophilius Leacroft.”
“Has he been found, Mrs. Westerman?” Mrs. Service asked. At the same moment she put out her hand in front of Lord Sussex, palm raised. The young peer looked a little glum and handed her the cat’s cradle he had been playing with under the table since his races had been stopped. It disappeared into Mrs. Service’s reticule and he despaired of seeing it again before dinner. Oblivious, Harriet continued reading from her note.
“He has indeed. Dr. Trevelyan thought he had heard a colleague of his who runs a private madhouse down Kennington Lane mention a melancholic musician, and sent to him at once. The colleague confirms it. Mr. Leacroft is confined for his own safety, but is in no way dangerous and I have his address before me.”
Susan clapped
her hands. “Oh, Mademoiselle will be very happy!” Then she looked confused. “But why is her singing teacher here? Did she not grow up in Paris?”
Graves coughed. “I’ll explain it to you later, Susan. I promise. But that is good news, indeed. Mrs. Westerman. As soon as you have written your note, Philip will take it straight to her rooms in Piccadilly.”
When Crowther arrived to accompany Mrs. Westerman to their assignation with Mr. Palmer, he walked in on such a scene of domestic harmony and goodwill that he felt as if someone had doused him with a pail full with the milk of human kindness. He did not enjoy the sight of Mrs. Westerman and her sister in dispute, but this improving scene of family business and pleasure was almost equally exhausting. He thought of the privacy and quiet of his workroom with a now familiar nostalgia, and steeled himself to be spoken to by several people at once.
It was not long before they were interrupted, however; Alice knocked on the door to tell them Mr. Tompkins had returned and was waiting for them in the library, with apologies for his early call. When Harriet opened the door, their visitor shot to his feet as if he feared he had committed some deadly sin by sitting in the first place.
Mr. Tompkins was not a very sensible young man. His clothes were all in the current fashion and had, no doubt, cost his father a fair penny, but instead of making him look at home in society, they marked him out as a man too easily seduced by his tailor. Every line of his dress was a little too one thing or the other. He was already rather fleshy for his age, and seemed to be made of softer stuff than other men. In his conversation, when he wished to be manly and authoritative he overtopped it and seemed more a boy than Stephen, and when he tried, as he had done on their previous meeting, to make some elegant compliment, he sounded like a poor actor, overrehearsed but stumbling nevertheless. The general impression was of a hen who had dressed herself in peacock feathers and was trying to pass them off as her own with a casual shriek on the summer terrace of Thornleigh Hall.
Harriet made a silent promise to be kind. When last this gentleman had visited, he had had nothing of interest to tell them, and had told them that nothing in an uninteresting manner. She had made no effort with him, but before he left the house Graves had opened the door to speak to them, and spent a few minutes in conversation with the man. He had been generous in his attention, perhaps reminded of his own arrival in London and his early difficulties. Because of his kindness, Mr. Tobias Tompkins had left the house rather more comfortable and a little less afraid. The incident had made Harriet ashamed. Now she looked at the young man again she thought his coat suspiciously like the one Graves had been wearing on the evening in question.
Tompkins began to speak as soon as the door opened.
“I have had a thought, madam! At least, I had a thought, and I . . . and I hope . . . I mean—oh, forgive me.” He bowed and the shoulders of his coat strained a little. “Good morning, Mrs. Westerman, Mr. Crowther. You are both looking terribly well.”
Harriet managed not to laugh and, ignoring the sigh behind her from Crowther, she stepped forward and offered her hand.
“Thank you, Mr. Tompkins. Now do take a seat and tell us about this exciting thought of yours.”
Crowther remained standing, and as Tobias sat down he could not help glancing up at him from time to time like a rabbit who has spotted something unsettling in the undergrowth. His nose was rather flat and his jowls had a pronounced swell. It looked as though his wig, a little elaborate for a morning visit, had forced his cheeks too low on his face.
“Well, that is . . . I mean, after I called and we . . . The thing is . . .”
Crowther had turned his back on them to shuffle some papers on the desk. “Do take a breath, Mr. Tompkins.”
Tobias made a visible effort to collect himself.
“I know I was not of any great assistance to you when we last spoke.” He looked very miserable, as if suddenly deflated. “I wish I had been reading some other stuff; if I’d had a novel in my hand I’m sure I would have been awake and heard everything. Being a lawyer might be a respectable career to aim at, but one has to read a great many very dull books.”
“You prefer novels?” said Crowther, still with his back turned.
Tobias lifted his chin. “Some novels can be very improving!”
Harriet tried to remain patient. “Yes, though those sort can send one to sleep as quickly as law books, I find.” Mr. Tompkins considered and was forced to nod fiercely in agreement. “But please, Mr. Tompkins, your idea.”
“Of course. I knew that you had spoken to Mrs. G’s other residents, but I was thinking surely someone must have seen something. I mean, in London one never really seems to be alone.”
Crowther did not turn away from his papers, but said, “I have often thought the same thing.”
Tobias visibly brightened at this moment of communion and continued, “So I was wracking and wracking my brains to think of someone till they hurt, you know, they really actually hurt! And then I remembered Gladys.”
Harriet realized that Crowther had taken a step toward them. His voice when he spoke had lost its unpleasant edge, and became one of cautious interest. “Gladys?”
“Yes, Gladys,” Mr. Tompkins said, and looked between them with a happy grin.
“And who,” Harriet said, willing patience on herself, “is she?”
Mr. Tompkins slapped his forehead with the heel of his hand. “I am a fool—how should you know who Gladys is?” It was perhaps fortunate that he did not look up at Harriet and Crowther at precisely this point. “The house we live in shares a backyard with the houses on King Street, you see, and Gladys lives in the one that backs onto ours.” Mr. Tompkins rubbed his chin. “She is a daughter of the lady who lives there, a widow, but she is a little simpleminded and likely to turn into a spinster. Never gives anyone any bother though, and nods to us all in the street, but not really with her full wits.”
Crowther took a seat, murmuring, “Who among us can lay claim to that?”
Tobias gave another deep nod. “Yes, indeed. Well said, sir! So, to continue, she has a little perch by the back window where her chamber is and watches the birds flying about and the cats and things. Just watches, you know. Spends half her days and nights there.”
Crowther looked at him with new attention. “I saw her,” he said. “She seemed to be looking straight into the room as I was at Fitzraven’s desk.”
“Mr. Tompkins.” Harriet’s smile became quite genuine. “Mr. Tompkins, you have had a very fine thought indeed. We shall certainly pay a call on Gladys.”
Mr. Tompkins blushed. “Oh, I have already had a word with her, Mrs. Westerman. Didn’t want to send you round to see her if she’d been out that afternoon or some such; she goes on her walks, you see. Would have felt even more of a fool! And as I mentioned, she’s a little simple. I didn’t want her to be frightened, and she knows me slightly, so I popped round there yesterday evening to say hello. I knew her mother would want to hear all about Fitzraven anyway, so there would be no bother about it.” He stopped speaking.
Harriet felt her jaw beginning to clench again. Crowther tented his fingers together and said very slowly, “And what did she say, Mr. Tompkins?”
Mr. Tompkins’s hand went to his chin again. “Well, as it turns out, she was out most of that day.” Harriet tightened her grip on the arm of her chair. “But it was a rum old thing. I was asking her about that afternoon, and telling her mama the news, and of your involvement.” He tried a little extra bow from his chair, then recovered himself. “Fearsome lady that, and Gladys said I shouldn’t worry about Mr. Fitzraven, because he was a very, very good man and she knew he was in heaven. She’s rather religious as well as simple,” he added in an apologetic undertone to Harriet, then continued in his normal voice, “I didn’t know him very well, but I never thought of him as terribly pious, so I said how was she so sure and she said the strangest thing!” Mr. Tompkins examined the carpet and shook his head with wonderment at his fellow creatures.
<
br /> Harriet managed to force her words out between gritted teeth. “What did she say, Mr. Tompkins?”
Tobias looked up again. “Oh. Yes. Indeed. She said she knew he was in heaven and had been very special, because in the night God sent an angel to come and get him.”
2
Jocasta paused and looked about her. So used had she become to Sam’s little figure trotting at her side with Boyo, when he was not there she sensed it like a physical thing. He was still hanging around the way into the alley and looking up or down the street.
“They aren’t coming, Sam. So have done with looking.”
Sam came toward her smartly enough at that, but he was still looking over his shoulder.
“But they said they’d be here, Mrs. Bligh. And they’re friends of mine, Finn and Clay. Finn’s shared food with me a couple of times, and Clay let me sleep in his doss down once. But I didn’t like the other fellows there. Or the lady.” Jocasta could tell by the tone of his voice there weren’t many he could call friend.
She sniffed the air, saying, “It’s not a bad day. Like as not they found easier work to do, and they think you’re the daft one for sticking with me.”
The boy rubbed his nose with the back of his hand, smiled a bit and seemed comforted.
“What are we to do then, Mrs. Bligh?”
“I’ve been thinking on that, youngling. You know where Fred works then, do you? This Admiralty Office?”
“That I does, Mrs. Bligh. It’s that big place down Whitehall from Northumberland House. You want me to go and watch?”
“No, I’ll find it. You keep an eye on his mother.” The lad nodded and was about to disappear off again when Jocasta stopped him. “Sam! Stay low, and stay out the way, eh? Just keep an eye out; no need to make any enquiries or get chatting with the lads or anything.”
Crowther 02 - Anatomy of Murder Page 21
