Theft of Life

by Imogen Robertson

  A light rap on the door and William entered and gave his slight, formal bow. He looked grim and unhappy. Harriet asked him why they needed to speak and he replied that as far as he was concerned, they did not need to speak at all. He apologised, but it was all some foolishness of Dido’s.

  ‘Some foolishness of Dido’s? A body?’ Harriet’s voice was sharp. ‘Come, William. Simply tell me what happened and let me judge for myself. You were out of the house last night, I think?’

  He did not look up but she heard him draw in a deep breath. ‘I was. And on my way back here this morning I saw the corpse of a Jamaican plantation-owner in St Paul’s churchyard, ma’am. Naked, apart from his undershirt, rope on his ankles and wrists as if he was being staked out for a whipping and with a punishment mask clamped round his head. I confess, Mrs Westerman, I don’t see what business that is of Dido’s, or of yours.’

  There was a pause while Harriet let the words settle in her mind and controlled the shock of them. ‘I am minded to agree with you, William.’ She turned in her chair to look at him more directly, Rachel’s letter still loose between her fingers. ‘How did you know him if he was wearing a mask?’

  ‘They struck it off while I was watching.’

  ‘Was he stabbed? Throttled?’

  William put his hands behind his back, spoke evenly. ‘I cannot say for certain, but I did not see much blood, and after a whipping of that kind there is normally a great deal.’

  ‘But there is something more in this. Dido would not want me to know about dead bodies as a matter of course; she fears I’ll tear my lace running after them. Why would she risk that by sending you to me?’

  He did not smile. ‘No one knew him in the crowd. His name was Trimnell, Mrs Westerman. He owned a small estate in Clarendon, Jamaica. He only arrived back in London six weeks ago. I said all of this to Dido as I came into breakfast. She thinks I should return to St Paul’s and give the authorities his name, but I would rather let things alone.’

  Harriet did not normally believe in letting things alone, but neither did she want to place her servant into a position he found uncomfortable. She put her elbow on the curved arm of her chair and rested her chin in her hand. ‘How do you know that he was only recently arrived in town?’

  ‘I read it in the paper, ma’am. Can’t help my eyes drifting to the West Indies news. Mrs Martin says any mention of the place should be cut out of the page before it’s handed to me.’ He smiled briefly. ‘I admit it darkens my temper. Still, I told the story and Dido said I should go back to St Paul’s – but I do not wish to, and I said so. I believe Dido wishes you to order me to do my Christian and civic duty.’

  Harriet turned back to her desk for a moment, and glanced out of the window. Two carriages were drawn up in front of the house and the complicated business of putting some of the family into one, and the rest into the second was in progress. Harriet could see her youngest child, Anne, her hand held firmly by her nurse, watching the developing circus with her usual air of happy enthusiasm until it was her turn to be lifted inside. Harriet would never understand how she had managed to bear such cheerful children. Her temper was more like Susan’s, darkening and brightening suddenly like a sky driven by a high wind. She watched Stephen and Jonathan clambering into the first coach, followed by Graves. Her daughter and the nurse followed them and Philip passed up a hamper to the coachman then clambered up behind. Susan and Eustache were getting more slowly into the second carriage with Mrs Service.

  ‘What exactly is a punishment mask, William?’ she asked.

  He swept his hand in front of his face and spoke quickly. ‘Normally made of iron. It holds the jaw shut. It prevents a slave from eating the cane as they work. Sometimes a cook is made to wear one to stop them stealing food, sometimes others if they are caught eating dirt. It is fastened with a padlock.’

  ‘Eating dirt? I am not sure I understand you.’

  He seemed impatient. ‘Some slaves eat the soil. Some brought the habit from Africa, some do it hoping to die. Whatever their reasons, the owners do not like it, and take steps.’

  William had arrived at Caveley in 1779, bearing a letter from Harriet’s husband recommending him for a position in the household. She remembered now seeing him for the first time as he walked up the carriage drive, his skin chalky with the dust of the summer roads, the slightest limp that suggested a wound badly healed. An hour afterwards, he stood before her in the Long Salon while she read the letter. Her housekeeper had brushed his coat and he had washed the dust from his hands and face. She had liked him at once and had never since had cause to regret taking him into her household. Within a month she had discovered he understood the workings of the account books rather better than she did, and often asked him to check over her work. He was patient about it and she admired his tact, managing to instruct her without ever appearing to forget the fact that she was his employer. For the first six months at Caveley, he was referred to as ‘Mrs Westerman’s black’, but as the inhabitants of the area got to know and like him, he became known by his given name. Any strangers who remarked wonderingly on the colour of his skin found their reception grew chilly.

  Outside, she heard the carriages start away. ‘It must be many years since you last saw this Trimnell,’ she said. ‘Six, at the very least. Are you quite sure it was the same man? Were you …?’ She did not know the words to use. ‘Intimately acquainted?’

  There was a brief spark of amusement in his eyes. ‘He did not own me, Mrs Westerman, if that is what you mean.’ She blushed and his voice became more serious again. ‘But I am quite certain. I watched him kill a slave, some fifteen years ago, a man I made the crossing with, and roll his body into the harbour for the sharks. It was my first day in Jamaica. Trimnell beat him to death there on the docks for not having the strength to walk. He realised he’d got a bad bargain at the scramble and lost his temper. You don’t forget a face or a name when you’ve seen that.’

  There were times when Harriet wished she could not see in her mind’s eye the things she heard spoken of. ‘I would imagine not,’ she said. The house seemed very quiet. The sun was shining full into the room now. The branches on the chinoiserie wallpaper seemed to shiver, and the porcelain in its alcoves glinted. She felt more ignorant now than when she was confronted with sheets of numbers. ‘What is a scramble?’

  ‘It is a way of selling slaves, Mrs Westerman.’ William passed a hand over his eyes again. ‘As the ship gets in, slaves are rubbed in oil and gunpowder, to make their skins glossy, and any who can still walk are paraded about. Then all who can stand are put in a yard. Buyers come in, try to grab the healthiest, bind ’em together. The price per head is set. It’s a rush.’ He stopped for a moment and cleared his throat. ‘The traders can often get full price for some soul almost dead from the flux by standing him near men with work still left in them.’

  Outside in Berkeley Square, a fruit-seller was calling her wares. Oranges and limes, fresh off the docks.

  ‘Were you …?’

  ‘First time I was sold, yes. We thought the buyers were demons coming to rip us apart and eat us.’

  The clock on the mantelpiece chimed.

  ‘I shall go, William.’

  He looked up at her. ‘You, Mrs Westerman?’

  ‘I shall visit St Paul’s to admire the architecture. I shall make enquiries as I am passing by, and if they have not found out this man’s name for themselves, I shall give it to them. You need not involve yourself further, and Dido can stop worrying at you.’

  ‘If you think that is best, Mrs Westerman.’

  She did not know quite how to judge what was best and what was not in these circumstances. Still, it would give her something other to think of than Rachel’s latest outpouring of advice. William still looked doubtful; she felt a rush of affectionate understanding for him.

  ‘I am sorry indeed you had to see such a thing,’ she told him. ‘The memories it must have brought back to you are no doubt very disturbing. I am not surpris
ed that Dido was concerned.’

  ‘The memories are there every day,’ he said, so quickly she was startled. ‘And I dream of those times one night in three. Dido knows that.’ For a moment she saw him as an exotic object imported into the room to decorate it like the porcelain. People as objects. She had once overheard a titled lady offer one of her black servants to a friend. She said that she knew her friend, ‘had one already and thought they would make a charming pair’.

  ‘But I thank you for your concern, Mrs Westerman, and again for taking the trouble on yourself.’

  Had there been something about William having his own room in the attic at Caveley? Mrs Heathcote, her housekeeper, had mentioned it. He was a senior servant so it was perfectly proper, but had there not also been some reference to his being a bad sleeper? Harriet had never in her life met a sailor who could not fall asleep before his head hit a pillow – some trick the body learned after years of watches. She started to look for her reticule. ‘How long did you live in Jamaica, William?’

  ‘Seven years – though I am not sure you could call it living. I was eight years old when I was sold to the slavers. Fifteen when I joined Captain Westerman’s ship.’

  She found the little beaded bag under Rachel’s letter. Hat and gloves were laid out on a sofa table for her.

  ‘How did you gain your freedom?’ she asked. ‘You were so young. Did your master die? I have heard that often slaves are given their freedom in that way.’ There was an attempt at casualness in her tone.

  ‘Captain Westerman bought me, Mrs Westerman,’ he said. Harriet became very still, staring at her kid gloves lying waiting for her on the polished tabletop. William was still speaking. ‘I served him at table when he visited my master’s house and he took a liking to me. He bought me from him – for thirty-five pounds. He said if I worked hard, he’d let me keep a quarter of the prize money due to me. We had a fat couple of years. Then he let me buy my freedom with the proceeds.’

  She understood the words as they were spoken, but they seemed to fly away from the surface of her mind, like a stone skimming. ‘I do not understand,’ she said at last, but without turning round. ‘Are you telling me you were Captain Westerman’s slave?’

  ‘Yes, Mrs Westerman. For two years.’

  ‘And did my husband own any other slaves?’

  ‘Not to my knowledge, ma’am.’

  It was impossible. It was simply impossible. James had said nothing to her of buying a man. He knew she objected to the idea of slavery, as any decent person did. He would not, against her wishes. Even so far away. Something whispered to her that she had taken advantage of James serving overseas to act as she saw fit, even though she knew her husband might not approve of what she did. But that was not the same. That was simply not the same.

  ‘And my husband kept three quarters of the prize money due to you during that period?’

  ‘He did, though he could have kept it all.’ William sounded cautious. ‘He let me learn mathematics, navigation and reading with the midshipmen too, ma’am. Not many take the time to educate their slaves and in the West Indies it is frowned upon to teach a slave navigation in case of mutiny – yet he let me learn.’ The word ‘slave’ beat against the flow of her blood every time he said it. ‘Once I’d bought my freedom I’d have got my full share of prize money, only I fell and broke my leg before we had had much luck. It didn’t heal quite right, and I lost my nerve for climbing. Captain Westerman could have put me on shore there in the Indies, but he asked if I fancied service in England. I did, so he got me passage here with a friend of his. I was glad of it, Mrs Westerman. Free or not, the West Indies are a dangerous place to be a black man with no friends. Providence has served many of my countrymen worse.’

  ‘Providence?’ The word sprang from between her lips, bitter and fast. She controlled herself. ‘I shall go to St Paul’s as soon as I might. Tell Dido so, if you please, and have Peters bring round the chaise. I shall drive myself.’

  ‘Yes, Mrs Westerman.’ She heard him leave, but she could not look at him.

  I.4

  THE PORTER TOLD HER there was still no word as to the identity of the body, and when she intimated that she might have a name, he left his booth to lead her to a pink-faced young canon who was pointing out the glories of Wren’s dome to a pair of very well-dressed Frenchmen. He excused himself at once and grasped Harriet’s hands. ‘You might know him? Oh thank the Lord indeed! You are the answer to my most fervent prayer, dear madam.’ Harriet managed to remove her hands gently from his as he spoke, but her attempts to explain that she did not know the man herself were lost in his rush to show her the body. ‘He is laid out in the Chapter House. Just this way, madam, please – a few steps.’

  He was an enthusiastic servant of the Lord, chivving her through the traffic that circled the Cathedral. Harriet, not wishing to distract him from the carts and carriages processing by, held her tongue and found herself following the young man up the steps of the Chapter House, by now feeling somewhat out of breath. He showed her into a long, high chamber, apparently some manner of meeting hall. It would be well-lit by the windows that looked out onto St Paul’s itself, but these were still shuttered and gave only a partial and broken light. There was indeed what appeared to be a body, draped in linen on a trestle against the far wall. What left Mrs Westerman speechless, however, was the sight of her friend, the anatomist Gabriel Crowther, standing in the centre of the room. She knew he was in London, of course. He had already been in town some weeks and they saw each other almost every day, but she had certainly not expected to see him here. There was something almost mythic about him, posed there in the half-light; tall, thin and leaning slightly on his silver-headed cane. The unreal flavour of the scene was added to by the fact that at his feet, another gentleman – in the costume of a verger – lay prone, his arms reaching high above his head and slightly spread.

  Harriet’s curate came to an abrupt halt and Crowther looked up at them.

  ‘There you are, Mrs Westerman. You have taken your time getting here. I arrived almost a quarter hour ago and must have left Berkeley Square a good ten minutes after you.’

  ‘Crowther!’

  ‘Did you walk?’

  She flushed. ‘I did not walk. I took the chaise.’ And she had made good time, but before looking for some official of the church she had spent a little time in prayer, thinking over what William had told her. She had not found the calm she had been looking for, and now here was Crowther to make her feel a fool. ‘You spoke to Dido, I suppose?’ she said.

  ‘Yes, I met her in the square on my way to call on you and she told me where you were and why. And I have sent a boy to the Jamaica Coffee House to find some acquaintance of Mr Trimnell’s who may positively identify him.’ She found his evident satisfaction irritating.

  ‘I am delighted to hear you acted so quickly, but there was no need for you to come charging across town, Crowther. I did not leave any message asking you to meet me here.’ She was aware that this might sound pettish, but she could not help herself.

  ‘I thought Mr Trimnell was invitation enough,’ Crowther said innocently glancing at the body then back towards her. ‘It sounded interesting. This young man has kindly been showing me the manner in which the corpse was lying when it was found.’ He turned his attention to the body at his feet. ‘You may get up now.’

  The verger struggled quickly into a low crouch and scuttled away from Crowther till he was slightly hidden behind the clergyman who had accompanied Harriet. Crowther watched his progress with amusement.

  The canon was now looking between them with a look of alarm and dawning recognition. ‘You are Mrs Westerman. You are Mr Crowther.’

  Crowther was eyeing the body on the table. He leaned his slight weight on his silver-headed cane. ‘We are. Where is the coroner? I would like his permission to examine the corpse.’

  Before the man could reply, there was a knock at the outer door, but the gentleman ushered in was not the coroner, rather
the owner of the Jamaica Coffee House himself. His dress was somewhat old-fashioned – a full wig and wide sleeves on his coat. He introduced himself as Mr Sanden, and Harriet had the impression that the duties of the day weighed on him. He was much the same age as Crowther, though shorter and broader; his eyes bulged large from their sockets and his chin, mouth and nose seemed to hang close to each other on his face. He reminded Harriet of a tree frog from the East Indies, only dressed for town. He chewed his lip. Crowther asked him if he would indeed know Mr Trimnell well enough to identify the body.

  ‘Aye, aye, I’d say so.’ He shot suspicious glances at the body in the corner. ‘There are others might know him better, but he did not have many good friends at my establishment.’

  ‘I understand he had not been back in London long,’ Harriet said, smiling at him encouragingly.

  Sanden looked at her, a little confused and his eyebrows climbing his wide expanse of forehead. He coughed into his fist. ‘As you say. Not long.’ He chewed at his bottom lip again, leaving it damp and pink. ‘But if it is Trimnell, I’ll know him. His father-in-law, Sawbridge, is a financial partner in my house and lives above the shop. So I’ve seen him.’

  ‘Why did Mr Sawbridge not accompany you here this morning?’ Harriet asked.

  ‘Balloon. Barbican. Party of Sir Charles Jennings. He’s gone out already for the day.’ Sanden added, ‘But, as I said, I can tell you if it’s him.’

  The verger had helpfully moved to the trestle table, a corner of the linen sheet laid over the body clamped in his small fist. Sanden went towards him, sighing and rubbing his hands, and Harriet and Crowther followed. The verger folded the sheet back to the chin.

  A thin face was revealed, the jaw covered in a heavy white stubble. The eyes were sunk deep in the sockets. It was more skull than human head. Harriet looked at the corpse steadily and thought of what William had told her, of watching this man beat another to death on the quayside under the blistering sun.