Mrs Trimnell concluded her evidence with an account of her father coming early to fetch her to the balloon-raising. She then returned to her chair, whereupon there was a sound of shouting in the passageway outside. All present immediately turned away from the coroner’s instructions to the jury to see what was happening.
A pair of city constables were pulling a man through the chamber towards the coroner. His skin was pale brown, his coat and trousers ragged and dirty. Harriet thought he could not be more than twenty; he had the long-limbed and awkward appearance of a young man not yet fully grown. He was thin, and his eyes stared out wide and suspicious from his smooth, rounded face. His hair was cut close to his skull.
The coroner looked at the two constables with considerable irritation. ‘What business do you have here? Who is this boy?’
‘This is your killer, Mr Bartholomew!’ the elder of the two constables said with relish. He looked around the room as if making sure everyone in the attentive crowd had the chance to see and remember his face. ‘Me and Higgins here pulled him up out of the doss-house not an hour ago, acting on information given that he’d pawned a watch belonging to a slaver and got drunk on the proceeds. He was boasting as it was the first wages he’d got for his work. A concerned subject of His Majesty came to us with this information.’
Everyone began talking at once. Everyone, that is, except the boy. He remained with his head down while shouts and brays swept through the room. The monkey on Drax’s shoulder danced onto its hind legs and applauded with its tiny leathery paws.
‘Enough! Some quiet!’ Bartholomew called, and enough of those present listened to him to allow him to be heard asking the constable if the watch had been found.
The constable lifted his chin. ‘This was found on his person!’ He produced a slip of paper with the panache of a huckster unveiling his miracle pill. ‘We went to the pawnbroker and he showed us the watch that was given for it.’
‘Is it here?’ Bartholomew said impatiently.
‘Mr Thirkle!’ A spindly gentleman emerged from behind the second constable and blinked at the court through thick glasses.
‘Are you the pawnbroker, sir?’ Bartholomew asked.
The spindly man bobbed an assent and then darted forward and put something into Bartholomew’s hand. ‘And is this boy the one who pledged you the watch?’ It seemed the pawnbroker was not enjoying his sudden celebrity as much as the constable was. Harriet could not hear his reply, but guessed it from Bartholomew’s change of expression. The coroner stood up from his chair and walked over to where Mrs Trimnell sat. She looked at what he held in his hand and nodded. Bartholomew turned away from her again and addressed the young man, still hunkered between the marshals.
‘What is your name, boy?’ He whispered something. ‘Speak up, there’s a good lad.’
‘Guadeloupe.’
‘And you have heard what these gentlemen are saying, Guadeloupe? Do you understand them?’
‘I never killed no man,’ the prisoner said with sudden fierceness. ‘Not on these shores.’
The answer didn’t do him any good with the crowd. There were shouts of ‘monster,’ and ‘savage’ around the room. He bared his teeth at them. Harriet was uneasy. With Bartholomew and the constables there, the boy would not come to any physical harm, and this must be the scene Mr Palmer had spoken of in which they should not intervene. She was beginning to believe, however, that removing Crowther quietly from the place might require some particular effort. She looked around her for some help. A pair of young women were lounging a little way behind her. They were finely dressed, but Harriet knew a woman of the town when she saw one. She slipped out of her seat and approached them.
Bartholomew shouted for quiet again. ‘Where did you get the watch?’
‘Found it.’
‘Found it where?’
Guadeloupe shrugged and looked at the coroner as if he thought him rather simple, then he pointed to the world outside the windows. ‘Out there.’
Bartholomew sighed. ‘Have you anything else to say? Anyone to speak for you?’
‘I have nothing to say. I wish to go back to my own country.’
Crowther seemed to be studying the boy with considerable interest. Harriet nodded to the two girls, one of whom immediately and with no apparent cause or embarrassment began to scream. All attention turned towards her. Harriet felt a brief spasm of sympathy for the coroner. She made her way up to Crowther’s side and plucked at his sleeve. On the other side of the room and apparently out of pure sympathy, another woman began to scream as if in fear of her life. ‘Come, Crowther, we have to leave.’
He looked irritated. ‘Nonsense. I want to examine that boy’s hands.’
‘Gabriel, please.’ He hesitated, but the use of his Christian name had the desired effect. He stood up, offered his arm to her, and while Bartholomew and the constables were still trying to gain control of the room, they edged their way through the crowd and out of the building.
Crowther thought he noticed the female who had started screaming and was now apparently in full hysterics on the flagstone floor look up and wink at Harriet with every sign of sense and health as they passed, but he thought it best not to remark on it.
III.2
FRANCIS WAS WOKEN BY the sounds of women moving around the room. Mrs Perkins and her servant were beginning their day. For a moment he was a boy again, ten years old and sleeping in Norfolk Street. The daily dread of his old master stirred under his ribs. Then he remembered he was a grown man with a trade, independence, freedom; his hands began to ache and his throat to burn. He remembered the fire and tasted ash. Life without Eliza, without hope of Eliza, opened out in front of him, bleak and broken.
He dragged himself up to his knees. The grocer’s wife smiled at him and pointed at the pitcher and ewer set out on the table. He wiped his face on the cloth and inspected the bandages on his hands.
‘Don’t pick at them, Mr Glass,’ she said. ‘Don’t want the London air getting into the cuts for a day.’ She set down a tankard in front of him, and when he tried to thank her, his chest ached and he retched. ‘What’ll happen to the lad?’ she said when he’d recovered himself a bit, nodding towards the apprentice in the corner.
‘I might take him on,’ Francis said. ‘Or rather, recommend to Mr Hinckley that we take him on.’ Mrs Perkins hid a smile. ‘Miss Eliza said he was a willing boy and I think Ferguson would welcome an apprentice compositor. She got him out of the Foundling Hospital.’
It was the one thought that held any comfort for him – that he could at least look after those she had cared for. The boy was still sleeping hard, his arms flung about as if he’d been fighting flames in his sleep. The grocer himself came in while they were still talking. He was in his coat and had the smell of the fresh air about him.
‘Mrs Smith’s been taken out of the house,’ he said gently, taking his place at the table and picking up the knife. Francis saw him glance at the maid and he continued in a stage whisper: ‘The poor woman couldn’t be known. The ceiling beams collapsed right where she was lying. Smashed her skull, the constable said.’
Francis felt it first, then understood his wider meaning. Her body would not testify. The only thing that said she had not died in the fire and by an accident was his own memory of that wound in her eye and the coldness of her skin.
‘And the cashbox?’ he asked.
‘No sign of it, or the maid,’ Perkins said. ‘But it’s a terrible state in there, and I was thinking, perhaps Penny just got scared and ran off. Maybe it was an accident?’ His voice sounded hopeful and he sighed heavily when Francis shook his head.
Within an hour, and having changed and washed the rest of the smoke off his skin at his own lodgings, Francis was back behind the counter in the shop. He did not know what else he could do. Ferguson, the two printers and the clerk had all heard about the disaster and the death of Mrs Smith. They knew her, liked her and liked Francis, so were solemn and kind. They patted him on the shoulder
and welcomed young Joshua into the place. Cutter the clerk brought Francis coffee he had brewed himself in the back kitchen. He had never done so before, so Francis took it that Perkins was right and people had spoken well of what he had done in the fire. He watched Ferguson lead Joshua up to the print room, his broad hand on the boy’s shoulder, and smiled briefly. He remembered being led that way himself and the hours of back-bending work that followed, undoing the dabbers every evening and soaking them in night lyme to keep them soft, the dampening of the sheets for the next day’s printing. He was disposed to like the boy. Joshua had wept hard when he woke and remembered that Miss Eliza was dead, and Francis reckoned it was more out of grief for her than worry for himself. He had practically burst out dancing though, when Francis had suggested he might serve out his apprenticeship at Hinckley’s.
‘Real books!’ he had shouted, then obviously fearing that this was some disrespect to his old mistress, looked fearful and deflated as if he had been flattened by the palm of some invisible justice. ‘I do like helping to make the pictures with Mrs Smith too. But I can’t draw, so I know I’d never make an engraver, sir.’ Francis assured him that he understood. Walter came by very early, stinking of last night’s gin but pale with worry about his friend. Francis was touched, but sent him home to sleep off the fumes.
The shutters were only just raised when a well-dressed gentleman whom Francis did not recognise entered the shop. His face was set and angry and he was marching in front of him the strange boy, Eustache, who had invaded his shop on Saturday morning.
‘Stand there!’ the gentleman ordered, and the boy obeyed, his chin on his chest. The man stepped forward to the desk and put out his hand. ‘Mr Glass? My name is Graves. I own Adams Music Shop on Tichfield Street.’
Francis nodded. ‘I am glad to know you, Mr Graves, and I would shake your hand if I could.’ He lifted up his bandaged hands and Graves lost his stern expression and looked at Francis with new attention and concern.
‘What on earth happened?’ He peered at him. ‘God, your eyes are red as Hell.’
Francis looked away. ‘There was a fire last night. Mrs Smith was killed. I believe she and Mrs Service, the lady who was with the children yesterday, were friends.’
Graves rocked back on his heels. ‘Oh, I am sorry to hear that indeed! Yes, they were acquainted. Mrs Service thought very highly of her. She had the impression you were old friends?’
‘We were playfellows in our youth, she, her brother and I.’ Francis was glad of the smoke in his throat. It gave him a better excuse for the break in his voice.
Mr Graves spoke gently. ‘My sympathies to you, sincerely. May I ask you to let us know in Berkeley Square when the funeral is arranged?’ He took a visiting card from his pocket and handed it to him. Francis took it without a word. ‘I am very sorry to have disturbed you.’
‘Mr Graves, I have unlocked the door and taken my place on the floor. How may I be of service to you?’
Graves straightened. ‘Thank you, Mr Glass. Eustache, come here and confess your sins.’ The news of Mrs Smith’s death had knocked the rage out of him, but his voice was still serious and low. The boy had looked surly when he first came in; now he seemed confused, nervous.
He stepped up to the counter and reached into his coat pocket to produce a board-bound volume Francis recognised with a sinking heart. The volume which held the portrait of Eustache’s mother, and the tale of her scandalous youth and later, terrible crimes.
‘I stole a book, sir. And I am very sorry for it.’ His voice was a whisper.
‘An accident?’ Francis said. ‘Perhaps you put it in your pocket by mistake.’
It was Graves who answered. ‘Even if it was a mistake it became a crime. Look inside.’ Francis picked up the book and opened it rather awkwardly. On the title page someone had written in unsteady copperplate Ex libris Eustache Thornleigh 1785. It was slightly smudged.
‘I am sorry for taking it, Mr Glass,’ the boy said again.
Francis sighed. He would have to explain to Graves and take the blame for placing such a thing in the hands of his ward in the first place. ‘No, Eustache, I understand. Let me explain …’ The boy’s face went white and his eyes became very wide and pleading. Francis paused. The boy did not want his guardian to know his choice of reading materials? Very well. He cleared his throat. ‘It is one of the most exciting volumes we sell here; there are a great many pirates in these family romances. It was cruel of me to put it in Eustache’s hands when he had not the opportunity to finish it.’ The boy’s shoulders sagged with relief.
Graves replied, ‘I could pay you for the book, Mr Glass, and if you prefer it I shall, but I would be grateful if instead you let the boy earn back its purchase. He will sweep your floors for a week. Give him the worst jobs you can find, if you please. He must learn that what he takes, must be earned.’
If Francis had been rested, or less sunk in his own misery, he would have made some other answer, but as it was the words were out of his mouth before he was aware of even thinking them. ‘Since when did a child born rich in this country have to work for what they make use of?’ Graves looked away and Francis closed his eyes for a moment. ‘Forgive me, Mr Graves. That was ill-said. Master Eustache, has your guardian explained to you that children are transported or whipped for stealing in this country?’
‘Yes.’
‘Are you willing to work?’
‘Yes, sir.’
Francis could feel the wounds pulsing in his hands. He thought for a few moments before he spoke again. ‘You’ll forgive me, Mr Graves, but I would not like it to be known that a boy of Eustache’s birth is sweeping up in my shop. It might bring the wrong sort of talk, and I am sure you do not wish every loiterer in the city to come in and stare at him.’ It was clear Graves had not thought about this. He looked more embarrassed than Eustache. ‘But I think we can find a use for him’, Francis went on. ‘I cannot hold a pen, so I may need a scribe – and Master Eustache, there is a pile of manuscripts in the back room that must be nearly as tall as you are. You will read them and tell me which of them you think Mr Hinckley and I should print and why. Would that be punishment enough?’
Eustache bit his lip. ‘Yes, sir.’ Graves looked doubtful for a moment, then nodded his agreement. Francis called Joshua and told him to show Eustache into the back room, but before he could be led off, Eustache turned back to him.
‘Do bookshops often catch fire?’ he said.
‘Not often, Eustache,’ Francis said, ‘and never during the day.’
‘Do you promise?’
‘I do. Get along now.’ And he let himself be taken away.
‘The boy has a particular fear of fire,’ Graves said awkwardly.
‘Because of his mother, no doubt,’ Francis said.
Graves clasped his hands behind his back. ‘You know who we are, of course, and must have heard the stories … We make efforts not to mention it in front of the children. He in particular was so young, we doubt he remembers.’
‘Eustache told me the story himself within a minute of our meeting, Mr Graves. It seems to me he remembers quite enough.’ Francis thought of the fire running round the blue and yellow wallpaper, knowing that the image and sound would remain in his bones though he lived to a thousand.
Graves crumpled rather. He was a little younger than Francis, but at that moment they both looked like old men. It took him some moments to find his voice again. ‘A neighbour of ours in Sussex makes the most excellent cures. I think perhaps your throat pains you?’ Francis conceded that it did. ‘We never come to London without a supply. I shall have some sent here. Your hands are burned also?’
‘Cut by glass.’
‘Something for that too then.’
‘That is kind of you, Mr Graves. I thank you for it.’
Graves shook his head. ‘It is a kindness to let me do some little good when it seems I manage so much else so badly,’ he said.
‘I liked both the children, Mr Graves. I know eno
ugh of men to trust my feelings in such matters. Whatever trouble they cause you, I think their hearts are good.’
‘Is that enough, Mr Glass?’
‘It has to be,’ Francis replied. They exchanged polite bows and Graves left the shop obviously deep in thought. Francis watched him go and for a moment pitied him, then heard a stifled laugh from the back room. The boys had made friends already, it seemed.
‘Joshua, get back upstairs to Mr Ferguson,’ he said over his shoulder, then turned once more to his accounts, trying to find comfort in the unthinking numbers.
III.3
HARRIET AND CROWTHER WERE waiting for Mr Palmer in the library, but when he was announced they were surprised to find he was not alone. The tall African Harriet had noticed in the Coroner’s Court came with him, and was introduced to them as Mr Tobias Christopher. Harriet was surprised to see Crowther smile and step forward with his hand out when he heard the name.
‘How do you do, Mr Christopher,’ he said as they shook hands. ‘I had it in mind to visit you while I was in town. There are gentlemen at the Royal Society who swear you are the best swordsman in London.’
Christopher’s voice was deep; his vowels were rounded and broad. Harriet found she had a sense of his words decorating the room as if he were placing polished stones in the air between them. ‘They do me much honour to say so, though they are quite right. And you would be welcome indeed in my home.’
‘If Mr Christopher likes you, he will teach you to fight for survival as well as elegance,’ Mr Palmer said. ‘What he taught me yesterday will probably save my life at some point.’
Harriet looked from Mr Christopher to Palmer with interest. She had always thought of him as confined to the offices and coffee houses near Whitehall and his wars fought largely on paper or in whispers. It was interesting to know he expected to be in bodily danger. She felt oddly forced out of communion with the gentlemen, however, by the presence of all these invisible swords.
Theft of Life Page 12
