Theft of Life

by Imogen Robertson

  ‘Mr Palmer, I thought our involvement in this business would end this morning. What do you want of us?’ The men turned towards her as if they had forgotten she was there.

  ‘You had questions at the inquest, Mrs Westerman,’ Palmer said with a polite smile. He leaned against the mantelpiece while Crowther and Tobias took their seats opposite one another in front of the empty fireplace. Harriet settled herself on the cherry-striped sofa, her silks rustling.

  ‘I was curious. But still, I have no great wish to find whoever it was that beat Mr Trimnell. Nor do I think Crowther and I are the best people to find the guilty party, even if we wished to do so. I know you have found us useful in the past, Palmer, but we would make ourselves ridiculous asking questions among those who inhabit the city at that hour of the night. Surely the constables and thief-takers are better suited for the task.’

  Christopher gave her a slow and careful smile. ‘You agree with the hints of the newspapers this morning, Mrs Westerman? That it was an ugly act of revenge by a savage who does not understand the English way of life? You think when they took Guadeloupe they had the right of it?’

  She found his gaze unsettling. ‘I do not know, Mr Christopher. The manner of the attack suggests revenge of a former slave, does it not? I suppose a decent English thief might make a man found with such a thing wear it, but the attempt to stake him out certainly implies some knowledge of slavery. And the boy did have the watch.’

  ‘It does,’ he said. ‘And he did. And I like your notion of a decent English thief, madam, though I cannot say I have enjoyed the pleasure of meeting such a one.’

  Harriet was not sure she had met one either, other than in the tales of Robin Hood, and she looked away.

  ‘You think Guadeloupe is innocent, Mr Christopher?’ Crowther asked. ‘Palmer would not have removed you from the room if he did not fear you might protest.’

  Christopher crossed his legs and sat back in the chair. ‘Very few of us are innocent, and Guadeloupe is poor enough to want to rob, but I do not think he attacked Trimnell. He has been sleeping in the outbuilding behind my house for the last week while we try to find him work. He is new in England, but before then was in a field-gang in Barbados. He would not know Trimnell as a slave-owner.’

  ‘And that is why you think him innocent?’ Harriet asked. ‘Suppose he aimed to rob Trimnell, then found that mask about his person – would that not enrage him?’

  Christopher considered for a moment. ‘It might. Would you understand me, Mrs Westerman, if I said, however, that this simply does not taste right under my tongue?’ He folded his hands together under his chin and watched her expression. ‘It does not taste so sweet to you either, is my thinking. That is what my friend Mr Palmer meant when he said you had questions. Good. Would you unfold them before us, madam? As a favour to myself?’

  Before she could do so, William entered the room with a tray of wine glasses and a decanter. He sat it down and they watched as he poured and handed the glasses to their guests. Mr Christopher said something to him as he took what was offered and William replied. There followed a short conversation. William seemed slightly embarrassed, Mr Christopher delighted.

  ‘Do you and William know each other, Mr Christopher?’ Harriet asked, taking her own glass.

  ‘We have not had that pleasure,’ Christopher said. ‘But we are both from Igbo stock. Not close relatives, that is why I am so much more handsome than he is.’ His eyes shone, suddenly mischievous. ‘But our language is close enough that we can exchange proper greetings.’

  Crowther took his glass from the tray and noticed William’s suppressed smile. ‘Thank you, William.’

  ‘Mr Crowther.’

  He left the room and Harriet watched him go; he seemed another being suddenly to her, having heard that language on his tongue.

  ‘Your questions, Mrs Westerman?’ Christopher said after William had closed the door. ‘What sticks and bites when we say Guadeloupe has done this thing and must be punished?’

  She tried to collect her thoughts. ‘The timing of the attack. The unlikelihood of a boy as slight as Guadeloupe managing Trimnell alone. And it seemed … elaborate – personal – his killing. I realise I only saw Guadeloupe for a moment, but nevertheless …’

  ‘Your instinct is correct. A knife in the belly on a dark street would be more his fashion,’ Christopher said. His voice was almost affectionate. ‘And where are Mr Trimnell’s clothes? Guadeloupe was not caught pawning them, I think.’ He looked up at Palmer for confirmation. The man from the Admiralty nodded. Mr Christopher brought his hands together and smiled. ‘But I think my new friend has brought me here to tell you something else, to feed your curiosity – and not about Guadeloupe – though I can’t be certain what Mr Palmer’s larger purpose is. Does our friend always have a larger purpose, do you think, Mrs Westerman?’

  She studied Palmer, who remained quite calm under their combined scrutiny, neither amused nor uncomfortable. ‘I believe he does, though what it is I cannot say. What do you think, Crowther?’

  Crowther sipped his wine then set it down beside him. ‘Sometimes I think Mr Palmer treats us like dried leaves, Mrs Westerman. He throws us up into the air just to see which way the wind is blowing.’

  The corner of Palmer’s mouth twitched slightly at that, but he said nothing. The African laughed, low and soft. ‘Very well. This is what I told Mr Palmer yesterday, after he had flattered his way into my confidence, and what I think he wishes you to know. It is not a story I like to tell, but here in this beautiful room, with my new friends, how could I refuse to share it? I am a runaway slave, madam. It was Trimnell himself I ran from some fourteen years ago. I managed to smuggle myself on board a merchant ship, made my way here and learned my trade. I am a warrior by nature and took to the sword. Now I own a school of the defensive arts in Golden Square.’

  Harriet looked again at the whiteness of his shirt collar, the cut of his coat and the gleam on his shoe buckles.

  ‘You have done very well,’ she said.

  ‘I have. But hear this, madam: not one day in all these years have I forgotten that the shadows might hold a group of men desirous to bundle me onto a ship and back to Trimnell and his whip. Is it any wonder I studied to fight well and quickly? That mask has stopped my tongue, madam, and many times. I swore the day I escaped, it would never do so again. Never.’

  ‘I hope you have not come to make confession, Mr Christopher,’ Crowther said coolly. ‘I am not sure what the rules of hospitality would suggest in such a circumstance.’

  Christopher looked across at him. ‘Ha! Indeed, a terrible thing it would be, to put a lady in that position. But I am not such a monster. I have English manners now.’ His smile was broad and sudden, then it disappeared again. ‘No. I had reason to hate Trimnell. I loathed him, I despised him – but when I heard he was in London, I was also afraid. Afraid he would know me and claim me.’ The idea of this man having anything to fear from that hollowed-out corpse with its broken and failed heart seemed incredible to Harriet. ‘Mrs Westerman, my family have a letter ready for a lawyer I know. If I am late coming home they have instructions to run to him quick as they might with it so he may lay a writ of habeus corpus.’

  ‘Habeus corpus?’ Harriet asked.

  ‘It is the legal method used to prevent slaves being taken out of this country against their will,’ Palmer said, an elegant chorus. ‘There was a legal case in 1772, Somersett. A slave cannot be forced against his will onto a ship to the West Indies, though of course it still happens from time to time. When it does, obtaining a writ of habeus corpus has proved effective. Assuming it can be delivered in time.’

  ‘I believed slavery illegal on English soil, after that case. I remember being proud,’ Harriet said faintly. She put her hands together on her lap again and her silks sighed with her.

  Palmer studied his wine ‘Many do. In truth, the matter is more complex.’

  The African reached into his coat pocket and produced a heavy sheet of
paper, folded into thirds. ‘I raised my glass on that Day of Judgement too, madam. But the legal ins and outs are not the business of today. Yes, I hated Trimnell. Trimnell was my master. Yet Mr Trimnell came alone to my house last week – and he brought me this.’

  He gave the paper to Harriet. She read it and handed it to Crowther.

  ‘Your manumission,’ he said simply. ‘So Trimnell relinquished all legal claim over your person and gave you this document to prove it. You have the air of a wealthy man, Mr Christopher. Did Trimnell ask you for money? I would imagine you would be worth a great deal.’

  For a moment Harriet thought Mr Christopher was angry, then he smiled again. ‘I am. And he so wasted and dirty a man, sir, I was ashamed to think he owned my fine blood and bones.’ Christopher tutted a little, then turned his face to Crowther’s, his dark eyes wide and serious. ‘But no, Mr Crowther. He did not ask for my money, and here we come to why Mr Palmer has brought us together to tell stories in this handsome room. You see, Mr Trimnell asked for my forgiveness.’

  III.4

  THE LETTER ARRIVED A little after midday. It was brought into the shop by the same constable who had pulled Francis from the flames. Francis was glad of the chance to see him again and this time managed to thank him. The constable – Miller, he said his name was – was grateful for the offer of refreshment. It was not until they were both seated in the privacy of the back parlour that Francis broke the seal and read the letter. It was from Eliza Smith’s sister-in-law, and he had to read it twice before it made much sense to him. As its meaning became clear, his heart sank. Her husband George – Francis’s old friend, Eliza’s brother and presumably her heir – was travelling in the north of the country. Letters were being sent to his friends there, but his itinerary was uncertain, and with the best will in the world it was likely to be a week before he could be back in London. His wife, who was still in fragile health after the birth of her fourth child, begged Francis to take charge of affairs in London until her husband returned. She wrote that she trusted in his good sense and loyal heart, and gave her authority that he should act just as he saw fit. It was all Francis could do to stifle a groan; the weight on his shoulders already felt more than he could bear. The constable was watching him.

  ‘She sent us a note too, Mr Glass. Saying it was all put into your hands.’ He cleared his throat; the smoke had got deep into his lungs too. ‘There’s a fair bit of stock could be saved, I think. And some of the machinery too. Printed up engravings, didn’t they? Fire sort of smashed itself out when it came down on that poor lady’s head. Then there’s her body: she needs burying and the bloke who owns the land wants the place pulled down and cleared so he can get building again. He came around looking while I was on guard this morning. Drooling like a dog outside a butcher’s, he was.’

  Francis put the letter to one side. ‘The ashes aren’t even cold.’

  ‘Aye well, business in the city, you know. They’re not ones to stand about. My impression was he reckoned he’s been underpaid for that spot for years. But you know, with Mrs Smith’s reputation so high I guess he never dared put up the rent on her.’

  Francis looked at the constable, frowning suspiciously, and Miller read his mind. ‘No, no. He got off the Bath stage this morning – I checked. So he couldn’t have had anything to do with it. Yet it does seem queer, the fire going off like that. The inquest takes place this afternoon. Three o’clock in the Black Swan.’

  Through the taste of smoke in his throat, Francis told him again of what he had seen – Eliza’s body, her wound and the coldness of her flesh. The constable rubbed his chin with his yellow fingers and made him describe the fire again, the way it ran around the room in waves.

  ‘Don’t like the sound of that, Mr Glass. Not at all. I’ve seen enough fires here in my time and they don’t just dash about like that unless they’re following a trail that’s been set for them. You’ll have to tell the coroner and he’ll look down his nose at you. He’d rather have an accident than a murder. But you’ll have to tell him, just the same. First things first though. If you’re at liberty now, you’d best come with me and sort through what’s worth saving and make some arrangements.’ He set down his tankard. ‘The maid’s still not turned up, you know. There’s talk on her.’

  Francis thought of the sharp-faced girl. ‘I did not wish Eliza to employ her. But Mrs Smith said she was doing well, and seemed to be growing fond of her. Perhaps Penny’s evil habits did stay with her and even Eliza’s kindness could not wash her clean.’ He got up from his chair, his bandaged hands making him clumsy.

  ‘I can’t say that being a constable has taught me to think better of my fellow creatures, Mr Glass, but I hope you’re wrong.’ Miller hauled himself up and blew out a long breath. ‘Girl seemed to be doing well with Mrs Smith, as you said. Still, she isn’t there, and there’s still no sign of the cashbox and poor Mrs Smith killed.’

  Francis began to struggle into his coat, and seeing his difficulty Miller helped him, holding it so he could slide in his arms without pulling at the bandages. ‘You’d best bring a purse with you,’ Miller advised. ‘There’ll be men to be paid for gathering and carrying and guarding, and now you’ve got that letter looks like they’ll be on your charge.’

  The expense did not disturb him. He drank little and his entertainment consisted of the books he read, so he had a fund saved from his wages. However, Francis realised for the first time through his grief that he was angry. It was not an emotion with which he was very familiar and it took him a few moments to identify the feeling of cold constriction under his heart. Someone had taken Eliza away. Someone had destroyed her, broken her and left her as if she was of no account, as if no one would miss her or come for her. He put the letter into his pocket. Someone would pay. If it were the maid, then she would be found.

  ‘All that can be done, I’ll do,’ he said. ‘Might I ask your assistance, Mr Miller?’

  ‘Happy to oblige, Mr Glass, in all that’s lawful.’

  The two men did not manage to leave at once; as they passed through the shop floor Francis stopped a moment to tell Cutter what had occurred and where his business was taking him. Cutter only nodded and scratched his ear. This he did in a manner that suggested the world was a wicked and weary-making place, and that he was happier to stay in the shop. As Francis was still speaking, a very tall gentleman in a scholar’s clothing and with wide blue eyes came in. He had red hair, a sight which always stopped Francis dead even after all these years in England. He had thought the first red-headed man he had seen a demon for certain, so unnatural did the colour seem, and he still could not help suspecting them a little.

  ‘Good day,’ the demon said, smiling very widely. ‘I am looking for a book.’ He had got the whole sentence out before he noticed the colour of Francis’s skin. His expression changed from open enquiry to surprise to a sort of fascination. The constable mumbled something about waiting for Francis outside.

  ‘You are certainly in the right place,’ Francis said with a slight bow. ‘Was it a particular book you are looking for?’

  The man laughed. ‘Oh yes, Edward Long’s History of Jamaica. Do you have it?’

  ‘We do not,’ Francis said evenly.

  ‘Are you quite sure?’ the demon asked, still beaming. ‘I was told by the gentleman in Humphrey’s to come here specifically to buy it.’ It seemed to dawn on him that the atmosphere in the shop was become suddenly chilly. ‘Have I said something wrong?’ Francis wondered if any face could in truth be as innocent as this one appeared to be. ‘I am writing an essay for the Cambridge Latin Prize. This year, the subject is Anne liceat invitos in servitutem dare. That means—’

  ‘Is it legal to sell a man against his will. I have enough Latin to understand that, sir.’

  ‘Do you? How interesting! Yes, and I am here in London to buy books and I was told …’ He tailed off.

  Francis prayed for patience; the man did not seem to be malicious. ‘The clerk in the other shop means to make a j
oke of us both, sir,’ he explained. ‘The book you mention contain some unflattering commentary about people of my colour. We sell works of fiction here, music and some history. But not that book.’

  The man flushed such a furious scarlet, it was as if his pale skin had been suddenly doused in red paint. ‘Oh, I see. My apologies.’

  Francis bowed. ‘You could not know. If you require anything else, my clerk will be happy to help.’

  The young man put his hand on Francis’s sleeve. The blush had faded a little, leaving his skin looking mottled. Francis could not help noticing the dry skin on his lips, the thin-boned fingers. He stooped slightly, his head on one side.

  ‘Were you a slave? I do hope you were. You would do me a great kindness by telling me of it. I won the Junior Latin Prize last year, and if I were to win the Senior Prize, my chances for a good career in the Church would be much enhanced. I am sure the judges would be impressed if I managed to get a first-hand testimony. You know, the winning essay is often published.’

  Francis felt his muscles tense. ‘You must forgive me, I am much occupied today.’

  The man had sense enough to release his hold and take a step backwards. ‘Of course, I understand. But should you have a moment over the next few days … My name is Clarkson and I’m staying at the White Rose until Friday.’ Francis nodded and began to turn away. ‘I am against it,’ Clarkson said, too loudly. ‘Slavery, I mean. The Bible does not support it, I think I can demonstrate that unanswerably. And it would aid my thesis, in that section where I argue against the assertion that Negroes are not human as such but part-monkey, to talk to some unusually intelligent examples of the sable brotherhood.’ His wide blue eyes remained as innocent as ever.