Crowther 02 - Anatomy of Murder

by Imogen Robertson

  Harriet tried to stop herself from looking at Gladys’s little hand plucking away at her dress. She noticed the fabric there looked a little worn. Mrs. Spitter gently laid her fingers on her daughter’s wrist. The hand was stilled at once, and the girl looked up at her mother with a grateful smile.

  “Indeed it is, Gladys,” Harriet said. “Tell me, when you went to the window with the picture book, did you see Mr. Fitzraven in his room? We think this gentleman in the drawing you have shown us was going to visit him.”

  The girl shook her head rather violently. “I did not see Mr. Fitzraven until His angel came to fetch him. He was sitting at his desk making his own picture book when God told me to go for my walk. But he was not there when God told me to come back.”

  Crowther frowned. “The corner is not far away. If you saw Mr. Bywater arriving, walked your path one more time then returned here, his visit must have been very brief.”

  Gladys looked at her hands. “If the man in the picture is Mr. Bywater then his visit lasted not more than twenty-three minutes. It does not take that time to do the walk, but I had to wait, and Mr. Bywater, if that is his picture, was one of the persons who released me.”

  Harriet leaned toward her a little. “I’m sorry, my dear?”

  “When I have finished my walk I must wait very quietly with my eyes down until three pairs of shoes have gone by in front of me. Sometimes I have to wait a long time, particularly if the weather is dirty, and sometimes when people see me waiting they walk a ways away, then I cannot see the shoes, even if I hear them, and that does not count. I was released by a lady who I did not see the face of, by Mrs. Little who is not little but very nice and always makes sure she walks where I can see her too, for I have told her about what God wishes and she always wears black shoes and white stockings not very much muddy, and by him.”

  “Are you sure it was him?” Harriet asked. “Only seeing the shoes?”

  “Yes. I had already seen his shoes and his buckles so I knew them again. Then I looked at my pocket watch and it was seventeen minutes from the moment I had to wait, to the moment he crossed past me, and that was six minutes from when I saw him first. When were you born?”

  “I was born on the eighteenth of April, Gladys.”

  “What year?”

  “Seventeen forty-eight, my dear.”

  “Thursday. A blue day. I like Thursdays.”

  Gladys turned and looked very directly at Crowther. It took him a moment to realize what was being asked of him before he said, “The twenty-seventh of July, Miss Spitter, in seventeen twenty-nine.”

  “Oh, a Sunday which is green, and the best day! Mr. Tompkins was born on a Monday which is the color of,” she pointed very carefully at the stripe on the settee on which she sat, “this.”

  “I see,” Harriet said, somewhat amazed. She kept her voice soft. “But you do not see the angel in the pictures?”

  Again she gave a violent shake of her head. “No. None of these is His angel. But this one . . .” she merrily plucked the picture of Manzerotti from the pile and pushed it toward them “. . . he looks a little like His angel. And he came in earlier, before I had my supper.

  Everyone was very still. Mrs. Spitter said to her daughter, “Dear, will you tell us what you saw of this gentleman.” She tapped Manzerotti’s picture, and the jet on her fingers clicked.

  “Yes, Mama. It was between the seventh picture and the eighth. I saw that man in Mr. Fitzraven’s window. He waited by the window a second and looked down. Then he went past, then two minutes later he walked back. Then a long time after supper there was a candle lit in the room and I saw His angel pick up Mr. Fitzraven to carry him to heaven. Perhaps this gentleman was a lesser angel come to see where the great angel should come to later, for there are many sorts of angel in heaven all ready to do His will. But even if he was an angel he was not Fitzraven’s angel. God let me see Fitzraven’s angel only after the fourteenth candle was lit.”

  Crowther swallowed and said carefully, “Gladys, what do great angels wear? Do they wear bright colors? I think I would expect to see an angel in gold or silver . . .”

  Gladys leaned forward very eagerly. “No, not at all. I thought His angels would be dressed in gold too, but no! His angel dresses all in brown. This color,” she added helpfully, tapping the knee of the astonished Mr. Tompkins’s breeches. “Which is also Saturday, but only the mornings.”

  Harriet turned to Crowther in astonishment. He gave a twisted smile in return. “We did not ask Mr. Crumley to draw Johannes, Mrs. Westerman.”

  Harriet was a little angry to find Crowther’s interest was as much awakened by the strange condition of Gladys Spitter as by the revelation of her angel.

  “We must have Mr. Crumley draw Johannes too, if one of us has a moment to give the description, do you not think so?” she said, as they mounted the steps toward the door of Berkeley Square. “Then I think we must ask Mr. Palmer’s advice. Surely he must have the power to employ the King’s Messengers and press the Bow Street Constables to service. We have done all we can. Bywater murdered Fitzraven, Manzerotti is the spymaster, and Carmichael most likely the channel through which information flows. Probably he is making use of his poor stepson to carry information to France even now.”

  “Yes,” Crowther replied with a slight drawl, “I suppose there was no ‘mutual acquaintance’ in Milan. Manzerotti realized Fitzraven would be of use placing him at the heart of society in England, and sent him to France, then England to warn Carmichael of his coming and prepare for it.”

  “I would like to see in what hand he writes music. That fragment of ‘Sia fatta la pace’ you found in Carmichael’s study was likely his signature and seal. Well, now we may return to the usual pattern of life, though we have very little we can say against Manzerotti. His activity in this, all we can lay at his door at this point, is caught in two rather lost and searching minds and that scrap of music.”

  “I would pay a fair proportion of my fortune to have that young woman’s brain under my knife,” Crowther replied.

  He was spared the commentary of Mrs. Westerman by the flinging open of the street door and a great number of voices telling them all at once that Daniel Clode had arrived and they were all very pleased to see him. The principal descended the stairs with a smile and a blush at all the fuss his arrival seemed to be causing, and Harriet gave him her hand with great pleasure. She glanced at her sister and saw a bloom on her that made her both happy for Rachel, and perhaps a little jealous. Crowther’s retreat was prevented by Mr. Graves none too subtly closing the front door before he could escape.

  “Excellent! Let us dine. You too, Mr. Crowther—you will be part of the party if you like it or no. And Mrs. Westerman, a man left a message for you during the afternoon. It is that Mrs. Wheeler’s friend will call during the course of the evening—if that means anything to you.”

  Harriet acknowledged the message and made her way upstairs to dress. The light had almost faded from the day.

  Molloy put all his weight behind it and released a thunderous knocking on the door of Adams’s Music Shop.

  “Open up! Open the door, damn your eyes! I see a light in there and I will not stir from here till I have speech with you! Now open the door!”

  Jocasta had made her way to Tichfield Street via the Pear and Oats and came up to join him now at a brisk pace, with Sam and Boyo at her heels. As she reached his shoulder there was a stir of movement in the shop and a young woman’s face appeared at the window.

  “Jane! It’s Molloy here. Open up, girl!”

  She did quick enough and held the door open with her foot, her hands being occupied with holding and guarding a candle flame. At the doorway to the parlor behind, Mr. Crumley appeared patting his mouth with a napkin.

  “Molloy! What do you want here?” Jane said. “I know for a fact there isn’t a person here owes you a penny.”

  “I need to know where Graves is. And better yet, Mrs. Westerman’s address in Town, if you know it.”<
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  Jane scowled at him. “Of course I know it, but why should I tell you? What you got to say to either of them?”

  Molloy breathed hard. “I hate to make it habitual but I’ve a warning and it touches on Westerman. You know me as a serious type, Jane. Do I look like I’m playing the fool to you?”

  The girl made her decision quickly and stepped back into the parlor, leaving the door ajar.

  “Wait there.” She returned with a handful of coins and thrust them into Molloy’s hands. “Berkeley Square—number twenty-four—and use this for a hack. Mrs. Westerman’s in the same place.”

  Harriet heard the knock at the door as she was finishing dressing, and expected her sister to come in when she issued the invitation, but was surprised to find it was Daniel Clode who had entered the room.

  “Mr. Clode!” she said, and dropped the comb she had been fastening her hair with in surprise.

  The young man hesitated a second, then stepped into the room, shutting the door behind him.

  “Mrs. Westerman, forgive the intrusion, but I wished to have some private conversation with you. I have been speaking to your sister.”

  Harriet turned back carefully to her mirror and made another attempt with the comb. “If it is regarding an engagement with Rachel, you know you have my hearty approval, but I had hoped you might wait, given the state of my husband’s health, before speaking about that.”

  He took a step farther into the room. “No, it is not that. But I suppose it touches upon it.”

  Harriet finished with her comb and turned toward him. The candlelight made the red of her hair glint as if it had its own fire. She never powdered it when they dined at home. “If you come to bring further weight to bear on me regarding my behavior, I wish you would not trouble yourself. The business, it seems, is successfully concluded. We have, we think, found who is responsible and will inform those who need to be informed this evening. There our involvement in the matter will end.”

  “No, not that either. Really, Mrs. Westerman, if you wish to know what I have to say, it would be as well to let me speak!”

  Harriet was silent.

  “Thank you. It is simply this. Miss Trench has, I feel, placed far too much weight on what damage any totally unreasonable remarks may be made from the steps you have taken in this, and in previous matters.” He blushed and looked at his boots. “Madam, I have the honor, in relative youth, to be one of the men trusted with the affairs of one of the great estates of the country. I handle many legal and financial matters for the estate of Thornleigh.” He lifted his hands and said with a sigh like a man abandoning a prepared speech, “Really, Harriet, you could dress as a heathen and ride a donkey from St. James’s to the Pulborough Hotel and you will do me not one ounce of damage. As long as my association with Thornleigh continues, I shall have to spend my best efforts avoiding the kindnesses of every person of quality in the neighborhood, rather than searching them out. Rachel underestimates the force of the Thornleigh name, seeing it embodied in Jonathan and Susan rather than in the estates and investments held in their names, and I have just told her as much.”

  The image of herself dressed as a heathen and the loving exasperation in Clode’s voice drew a laugh from Harriet. “Oh Daniel, I thank you. But I fear I may be an awkward sister to have. Graves would probably agree with Rachel. He was angry with me yesterday.”

  “Nonsense. Well, perhaps. But know this: Owen would defend you and your actions to the bitter end. To you he will voice his concerns, but if anyone else spoke of you in terms of less than respectful admiration, he would horsewhip them. As would I.”

  Harriet felt a warmth creeping through her body. “And what of the damage I do my daughter?”

  Clode grinned at her, and Harriet almost wished herself young again. “I understand Lady Susan herself has given you her own assurance on that point.”

  Harriet stood and placed her wrap around her shoulders, then crossed the room to take his arm. “You are perfectly correct. Clode, I am glad you are here.”

  “I hear the captain improves.”

  “It changes from day to day. This morning he was well, but last week he called me a whore and a spy and drove me from his room.”

  “I am very sorry to hear that, madam.”

  She sighed then patted his hand. “But in general, I believe he improves. Now take me down to dinner. In a few hours all this shall pass away from us and we may concentrate on more suitable occupations. Crowther suggested at one point that if I couldn’t sit still, perhaps I could devote my energies to writing religious tracts.”

  “Dear God!” said Clode. “I presume he was trying to read his paper at the time?”

  Harriet laughed again.

  “I’ve never ridden in a carriage before, Mrs. Bligh.” Sam knew the urgency of their journey, but the novelty of watching the streets pass at such a pace was too bright a thing not to be loved and held tight.

  “Do not . . .” said Molloy from his corner, and briefly removing a toothpick from his mouth “. . . get used to it.”

  Jocasta allowed herself a half smile in the darkness. “Tell Molloy what you found today, Sam.”

  “Yes, do. And give me my knife back.”

  Sam passed it across with some reluctance. Molloy looked at the blade and tucked it into his waistband.

  “Not stuck any malefactors with it then, I see?”

  Sam lifted up his chin. “Maybe I just wiped it after, Mr. Molloy.”

  “Ha! You improve upon acquaintance, young one. Now tell me who you found.”

  Sam settled into the corner of the coach. “There’s a boy spends time round the kilns. Gets pennies off them for bits of work, and sleeps there most nights for the warmth. He’d seen it. Said it was the woman what did it. Raised the rock and brought it down hard.”

  “And the rest.”

  Sam rubbed his nose hard on his sleeve. “He said he started peering because he heard them arguing like. When he looked, he said the girl was pulling away and shaking her head, but Fred was holding onto her hand and being all pleading and that’s when Mrs. Mitchell picked a brick up and struck her.”

  “Did he not think to tell anyone?” Jocasta asked.

  Sam wrapped his thin arms around himself. “He was scared. Ran away for a few days, but it’s cold, so in the end he went back. He’s littler than me.”

  Jocasta felt a pang of memory tickling her throat and thought of the rainy fell all those years ago, her trembling and confusion. She hunched her shoulders in the shadows.

  “You got a name for him? A promise to bide where he is?” Molloy said.

  “Yes, sir. He is called Evan. And I gave him the rest of the sugarcane the cobbler’s wife bought for me, and a promise of another if he waits till I come again. He’ll bide for that.”

  8

  Though they did not as yet know the particulars, the household realized that Harriet and Crowther’s investigation into the affairs of His Majesty’s Opera House had reached some sort of conclusion. That, and the arrival among them of Mr. Daniel Clode, made for something of a holiday atmosphere as they went in to dinner. It was one of those rare moments when it seemed everyone in the company was looking at each other with satisfaction and affection. The women, from little Lady Susan to Mrs. Service, looked beautiful, the men handsome and wise.

  “We received cards from Mr. Harwood, Mrs. Westerman,” said Graves, pushing the game pie toward her over the tablecloth, and spilling gravy onto it in the process. “Manzerotti is to give a benefit tomorrow night, and all profits of the occasion are to go to the Foundling Hospital in Mademoiselle Marin’s name.” Harriet helped herself to the food, but made no immediate comment. “I suppose,” Graves continued, “that it is a civilized gesture. But it seems terribly quick.” He examined the air in front of him, full of candlelight. “Perhaps they were afraid the town’s supply of yellow roses and paper would have become completely exhausted, were they to delay any longer.”

  “Perhaps,” Harriet said mildly, and all
owed herself to watch Clode and Rachel for a moment. Clode was talking to Crowther, or rather listening with furrowed brow as he encouraged Crowther to talk, and Rachel was making some remark to Mrs. Service about the egg dishes, made with the latest consignment from Caveley, but their delicious consciousness of each other was touchingly clear. Harriet had a slight pang for Lady Susan. The little girl loved Rachel dearly, but was likely to become rather quiet when Clode was in the room.

  There was a sudden knocking at the street door, so loud it could not be ignored and conversation around the room fluttered to a halt. A door in the hall opened and closed and a voice, cracked and raised, bounced its way along the corridor and into the room.

  “I don’t give a damn if he’s at dinner. I need him now and I’ll have him!”

  Lady Susan leaped excitedly to her feet. “It’s Molloy!” she said, and ran to the double doors at the bottom of the table and threw them open. The party turned to see the man himself in the doorway, tall and slightly stooped in his greasy hat, occupied in knocking the hand of one of the footmen off his sleeve. Beside him stood a woman of middle age and comfortable stature. She wore a skirt made from a patchwork of many pieces of colored material; blues and green mostly. There was something of the Gypsy about her, though her coloring indicated an Englishwoman. As they stared, from behind her emerged a little boy of about Susan’s age, holding a grizzled terrier in his arms.