Theft of Life

by Imogen Robertson

  ‘I was there when Mrs Westerman and the coroner brought the news to the widow. Poor Mrs Trimnell. Deeply upsetting. Mr Crowther has already taken it upon himself to examine the body on the coroner’s behalf.’

  Palmer held the coffee pot in the air and as the girl came to collect it, said, ‘Indeed. I understand Mr Crowther and Mrs Westerman were able to give Bartholomew the first hint as to poor Mr Trimnell’s identity. Useful, since so many of his acquaintance were watching the balloon-raising. Was it edifying?’

  Palmer’s life was that of a gambling man, though he never sat at a table. He guessed that his information was better than Drax’s or that of Sir Charles Jennings, and felt it was worth demonstrating it in this small way. If a man is about to ask you a favour, show him your strength.

  ‘It was inspiring,’ Drax replied, ‘but what is the good of all this wondrous progress, this innovation and our investment in human ingenuity, if we are not safe from the savages on the street. I have, as I am sure you know, appealed to the Government on numerous occasions to stem the tide of Negroes sweeping into this country. Mr Trimnell’s death was an unavoidable result of our concerns being ignored.’

  Mr Palmer appeared interested. ‘Was it? You have proof of that?’

  ‘I am certain proof will be forthcoming.’

  ‘So, a strong suspicion only.’ Drax shrugged and spread his hands. Palmer continued. ‘Many of the Africans recently arrived here fought with our troops in America and were promised their freedom. Would you have had us desert them?’

  Drax looked amused. The monkey chattered and bobbed its head. ‘Yes, and returned to their masters. It would have been better for us, better for our relations with this new “United States”, better for Mr Trimnell possibly and certainly better for the Negroes. We brought them here to idle, thieve and starve on the London streets. I fear that many do not understand the Negro nature as we who have lived with them do. They are savage, brutish, and given their freedom have no notion of how to live in a civilised world. Slavery is their salvation. Free them, and their minds turn easily to mischief and revenge. Undoubtedly this is the case in this instance. We did try and warn you.’ He sighed.

  Palmer spoke slowly. ‘Then you must be eager to see Trimnell’s killer bought to justice. Mrs Westerman and Mr Crowther have had some success – you must welcome their help.’

  ‘Indeed. Whoever made this foul mockery of a man in the Bishop of London’s own churchyard must be brought to justice, but I have … concerns. Suppose those who would destroy our trade with Africa out of some mistaken sense of fellow feeling with the slaves, suppose they were to suggest there was some justification for the killing … Oh, my dear! The argument could become violent on both sides. And while I would not call Mrs Westerman foolish as such, women are sensitive, and prone to be swayed by passionate appeals from those who like to pretend their misfortunes are the fault of others. Did you know Mrs Westerman has a black servant who, I hear, helps her with her accounts? Whom she left in charge of her estate, and her white tenants, when she went dashing off to Maulberg last year? I understand she is a widow and so whatever help is available must be welcome – but still! There are rumours she is likely to let her black marry one of her other servants. Are there not enough tawny brats clogging up the poorhouses already? Keswick’s father owned shares in some of our enterprises, but he sold them out and then, of course, Mrs Westerman is currently residing in Berkeley Square with Mr Graves.’ He spread out his arms, inviting sympathy, and the monkey ran down one of them again and crouched on the table, staring hard at Mr Palmer, while Drax tutted more in sorrow than in anger. ‘The people of this country do not understand the trade, Mr Palmer. We are accused of being monsters by people who have never left this island and step over their starving countrymen on their own doorsteps to wave their fingers at us. There are some ugly necessities, of course, but the Africans we take from that dark place are saved from the savagery of their own people. Mr Palmer, I have seen with my own eyes black traders slit the throats of men who have been rejected as unfit for sale off the coast of Guinea. Many captains risk their profits to buy such slaves out of mercy, and yes, then some die on the journey.’

  ‘It is strange the Africans are not more grateful for their deliverance,’ Palmer said innocently. ‘Many go to great lengths to destroy themselves, rather than be saved by you, I am told. Must not the ships be fitted with netting to stop them throwing themselves to the sharks?’

  ‘You make my case for me. Some people must be protected even from themselves. They are children. Now, all right-thinking subjects of His Majesty are, naturally, quite grateful to Mr Crowther and Mrs Westerman for their energy, but they do not understand the city, the trade or the Negro race. Many of us would be glad if they might be informed, tactfully, by a friend such as yourself that they need trouble themselves no more in this particular matter. The city has its own resources.’

  ‘Your confidence is most reassuring,’ Palmer said.

  Drax was waiting, hoping perhaps for an assurance that the message would be passed along. None came. He studied the air above Mr Palmer’s head as the low chatter in the coffee house continued. Notes exchanged, plans made, futures plotted and pasts picked over.

  ‘The city, Mr Palmer, our great city. It seems so robust, so vigorous, but it is in truth a delicate place. The right conditions must exist for it to flourish, like a bloom in a hot house. The air itself must be managed.’ He lifted his hand as if to stimulate the breezes where they languished. ‘There is no doubt Mr Crowther and Mrs Westerman have righted wrongs. I admire their industry, but … now what is the naval phrase? I have it. The city would not have loose cannon on its streets.’

  Mr Palmer remained silent. It was not an entirely unreasonable argument. Mrs Westerman and Mr Crowther did have a talent for stirring things up, but he did not like the argument, or Drax. He continued to listen while thinking on other rumours, other currents he had felt moving in the city waters.

  ‘They might damage that delicate balance of which I speak. You would not have children throwing stones near a glasshouse? Whatever their intention, if some pane were broken, some new current allowed within, all our prize blooms might begin to sicken. Think of the waste, the expense.’ He smiled again. ‘A word from a good friend, Mr Palmer. I think you understand me.’

  He waited, his head on one side until Palmer smiled back. ‘I do.’

  ‘Excellent.’ Drax got to his feet and the monkey leaped lightly into the crook of his arm and up onto his shoulder.

  ‘Dr Drax, did you like Trimnell?’

  A slight hesitation. ‘We were not well acquainted, even during my time on Jamaica.’

  Palmer finally stood and bowed to him, then remained on his feet until Drax had left the room. Then he took his seat once more and picked up the newspaper article again. Without moving, he said softly, ‘Did you hear that, Mr Molloy?’

  There was a grumble in the shadows behind him. ‘Not deaf yet, son. I’ve got sharper hearing than you, I’d reckon.’

  ‘What do you think of it?’

  The shadows seemed to shrug and a curl of pipe smoke lifted from them and into the light. ‘I think that fellow is a slimy bugger, and I’d count my fingers after I shook hands with him for one thing.’

  Palmer smiled. ‘As would I. Mrs Westerman is staying in Berkeley Square, I take it?’

  ‘She is. The Coroner’s Court are meeting in the back parlour of the Black Swan off Little Carter Lane, Monday morning. And Mr Crowther will be giving his evidence around ten, should you happen to find yourself in the area.’

  ‘Did you discover anything else?’

  ‘There’s a big fella owns a riding and fencing school in Soho Square, name of Christopher. It’s said he helps slaves who come to England and get it into their heads they should be paid for their work.’ There was a long pause and the curl of tobacco smoke curled ghostly upwards through the gloom. Palmer knew to wait. There was a sigh and a creak as the shadow stretched its legs out under th
e table and yawned. ‘Talked to a couple of boys. One says, “You want to know about Trimnell, ask Christopher.” Other fellow then cuffs him over the back of the head. I took that as a confirmation, you might say, that the information was good.’

  Palmer stared blindly at the table in front of him. The relationship between the merchants of London and the Royal Navy was of vital importance. The Merchant Navy trained and employed the sailors the Navy needed in time of war, and the revenue the Government managed to chivvy out of them fitted out the Navy’s ships with guns and powder. In return, the Navy protected trade. Businessmen, bankers, admirals and politicians in easy concord. It was, in general, a situation that Palmer applauded and he exerted his considerable influence to keep these relationships easy and friendly, but the slave trade – the trade which gathered such great armfuls of revenue into the country, which paid its servants and filled its ships with tobacco, rum and sugar – made Mr Palmer uneasy.

  Those captains and sailors who spent years buying slaves on the African coast then shipping them to Barbados or Jamaica had, in his experience, something broken about them. It was as if some cord between them and their fellow men had been severed. The gossip he heard in the dockyards unsettled him. Any captain might order a whipping; it was part of the code of discipline, but the punishments some of these slave-ship captains handed out to their sailors were of such severity, they suggested the actions of madmen. Ordinary seamen deserted before they were paid rather than risk being pressed into service in their crews again. Suicide was not uncommon and the general rates of mortality among the sailors were appalling. He had read accounts of the trade and had found them disturbing, even when they were written to reassure the reading populace that the trade was of benefit to all men, savages included.

  There were more of these accounts appearing every year. A strange, narrow-faced man from a family of musicians – a self-taught master of the law named Granville Sharp – had taken up the Negro cause twenty years ago. He had been dismissed at first, but slowly and surely his prosecutions of slave-owners, his writs of habeus corpus and petitions had attracted notice. The man subsisted happily on the charity of his family and no one could find any subtle way of making him stop. Poems were being written against the trade. The Quakers published against it, then last year the Reverend James Ramsay’s book had been widely read. It did not condemn slavery absolutely, but it shone a light on the practices that had shocked many. His character had been attacked with such ferocity by the planters and their friends, that Mr Palmer had begun to think there must be a great deal of truth in what he had written.

  Indeed, Mr Palmer thought it possible the public mood might change, and it would be wise of the Government to reconsider its closeness to the West Indians. But then they had such a great deal of money and, one way or another, had paid for half the Members of Parliament currently in the Chamber.

  ‘Do you know the Jamaica Coffee House, Mr Molloy?’ Mr Palmer said at last.

  ‘Well enough to spend the rest of my evening hours of leisure in that part of town. You’ll be at your lodgings tonight?’

  ‘Sleeping the sleep of the pious and righteous, as always.’

  The shadows gave a low sound that might have been a laugh. Mr Palmer took a small purse from his pocket and passed it over his shoulder into the shadows. There was a soft chink of coin and a low grunt which Palmer chose to interpret as satisfaction. He stood and dusted off his hat. ‘Always a pleasure, Molloy.’

  ‘Likewise, I’m sure,’ the shadows rasped and Mr Palmer went to pay his bill.

  I.11

  IT WAS LATE IN the evening when Crowther was shown into the Library at Berkeley Square. He found Mrs Westerman writing at the large desk under the north window. She put her pen aside.

  ‘Crowther! I thought you had seen enough of your fellow beings today. You are become such friends with the world, I hardly know you. Do we go to the Opera? The Pleasure Gardens?’

  ‘You are satirical.’ He sat down on one of the armchairs near the fire and half-closed his eyes. ‘Are you writing to your sister?’

  ‘Yes,’ she admitted and leaned back in her own chair. ‘We argued before I came away. Rather badly, I’m afraid. She feels I should marry again. Her little hints I could ignore, but she has taken it upon herself to find a number of suitable candidates.’

  Crowther put his long fingers together. ‘So I understand.’

  Harriet sat up rather sharply. ‘And how, may I ask, do you know anything of it?’

  He reached into the pocket of his coat and removed a letter. ‘She wrote to me.’ He turned the pages over in his hand while Harriet gaped at him. ‘She has some concern that you may have fled to London because of your passion for me.’ Harriet was speechless. Crowther kept his voice as even as he could manage. ‘Why else could you object to the charming Mr Babington, after all, as Rachel so reasonably asks, were it not for some other guilty passion?’

  ‘She wrote to you?’

  ‘She begs me to be kind.’ Crowther looked up at the ceiling. ‘She rightly suspects that I do not wish to be anything other than a bachelor, and hints that although we are good friends, we might not be compatible as husband and wife.’

  There was a silence and a log cracked in the fireplace before Harriet spoke. ‘I shall return to Hartswood at once and murder her in her bed.’

  Crowther’s laughter was rare and sounded like dry leaves turning in the breeze more than anything else, but it made his eyes gleam. ‘Your sister is usually a sensible woman, Mrs Westerman. I can only think the sleeplessness that must follow nursing her child herself has softened her brain a little. You might be pleased to know that within hours I had a letter from her husband telling me to ignore whatever his wife had said. I think he must have been in a passion when he wrote it. Mr Clode’s handwriting is normally far more legible.’

  Harriet did not speak and he turned to look at her. The light of the fire and candles brought out the most vivid runs of red in her hair, and he noticed for the first time that the lace on her sleeves and bodice was worked with silver threads, which shifted and shimmered as the flames breathed around her. He felt a pang in his chest in the region he knew from his studies was occupied by his heart.

  ‘Are you quite certain you do not wish to marry again, Harriet? Are you certain you do not wish to marry me?’

  ‘Good God, quite certain. We would deal terribly with each other.’ He returned his gaze to the modest fire in the grate and heard her stand and move across the room. She went on: ‘Though I did feel a little abandoned when you left. I believe I thought you could play the dragon at the gate, scaring off anyone who dared come pressing his suit.’ He felt her hand resting on his shoulder and without looking away from the fire reached up to take hold of it in his own and briefly turned to kiss the knuckles by the mourning ring she wore for her dead husband.

  ‘I deserted you, my dear. I apologise.’

  She squeezed his fingers and he released her then watched as she crossed the room to take the chair opposite him. ‘No matter, Crowther. I escaped the Tower.’ She too stared into the fire, her chin in her hand. ‘No, worse than Rachel was Verity Graves. I went to her, full of indignation about Rachel’s machinations, and Verity told me she thought I should marry as well. For the good of the estate.’ She looked thoroughly miserable. ‘My instructions and wishes are unclear. Apparently I pay too much to some of the tradespeople and forget the kindnesses of others. Added to which, William made various arrangements while we were on the continent, and I, not knowing he had done so, set about countermanding him as soon as we came home. I did not realise how much he had been doing on our behalf. I felt a very great fool listening to her, Crowther.’

  ‘Mrs Graves is a sensible woman, but I do not understand why she thinks marrying you off to that idiot Babington would be of benefit to the estate.’

  She looked at him. ‘I thought you rather liked Babington.’

  ‘Certainly not. I simply disliked him a little less than most of our neighbo
urs.’

  She laughed at that, and the sound cheered him. He leaned forward to give her the letter he had received from Rachel. ‘Do not read it, Mrs Westerman. Burn it and forget it.’

  She held it between her thin fingers for a moment. ‘What Verity said about the estate hurt me deeply. Am I really so incapable?’

  ‘Burn it, Harriet.’

  She threw it on the fire then stood again and began to walk back and forth along the hearth rug. Mrs Westerman was never able to stay still very long. He watched her with an obscure sense of relief and a certain warmth in his bones that he had learned to interpret as happiness. ‘Come then, Crowther. Complete your brilliance. Tell me then, what did you learn this afternoon?’

  He tilted his head back and stared at the elaborate mouldings that wound their way around the ceiling and the various painted scenes and skies they framed. He was enjoying her attention and the anticipation of the effect his next words would have.

  ‘I learned that Mr Trimnell was not murdered.’

  Harriet came to a sudden halt. He examined her sideways; her expression showed a pleasing degree of wonderment. ‘It seems a rather complex suicide,’ she said at last.

  Crowther laughed again. ‘He was assaulted, certainly, but if his assailants did mean to kill him, I’m afraid they didn’t have the opportunity to do so. His heart was grossly enlarged. In my opinion it was the shock of the blow across his back that killed him, but in truth he could have fallen at any time.’

  Harriet began to walk again. ‘So someone beat him, stripped him to his shift, attached that mask to him, dealt that first blow.’

  ‘They had no time to do anything else. By the by, those idiots at the Cathedral had thrown his shift on the fire. I do not think they shall do such a thing again.’

  ‘He falls to the ground and they begin to stake him out …’

  ‘But before they have finished doing so, they realise he is already dead – and flee.’