Theft of Life

by Imogen Robertson

  The lawyer was indeed waiting in the parlour. A small man who talked in a whisper, he explained the will and its terms to Francis with great care, as if instructing a small child. Francis was courteous and minded less than he would have done on other days. The loss of Elizabeth had made everything else in the world dull. What harm could be done to him now? The will was like her. Clear, loving, well thought out and showing great devotion to her church. All her personal effects she left to her brother to keep, sell or distribute as he thought fit – with one exception: a ring of her father’s that she wished to go to Francis. What wealth she left was, after her bills were paid, to be inherited by her brother with one sizeable bequest to St Mary Woolnoth.

  The lawyer turned the page and pointed out an addition on the last page. Ten pounds each to her apprentice Joshua Stevenson and her maid Penny Rendell in thanks for their service. It hurt Francis to read it. The executors were named as George Smith, Eliza’s brother, and Dr Thomas Fischer of St Mary Woolnoth. ‘Perhaps you might consult with Dr Fischer,’ the lawyer murmured. ‘And one or other of you should present yourselves at Mrs Smith’s banking house with the relevant documents. Have you kept the letter giving you the right to act for Mr Smith in this matter?’ Francis only nodded. The lawyer beamed. ‘Well done, Mr Glass.’

  The church was a fine one, part of the generation conjured into the air by Hawksmoor as the city scrambled to rebuild itself after the Great Fire. It had a barrel-vaulted ceiling and pale stone walls. Dr Fischer was not there, the verger told Francis, looking the bookseller up and down with a sneer, but could be found in his house a little further along the same street. It must be a good living, or Dr Fischer was earning very well from his pamphlets, collections of hymn tunes and bundles of sermons, Francis decided, for although the house was not large, it was big enough to entertain and impress.

  A maid opened the door to him, and after asking him his business in an aggressive tone of voice, told him to wait in the hallway while she saw if her master could receive him. When she returned, she confessed rather reluctantly that Dr Fischer was willing, and guided him up to a good-sized room on the first floor.

  The Reverend Fischer sat at his desk, dressed in the clothes of a prosperous gentleman rather than clerical garb. He was a tall man, vigorous-looking, and his cluttered desk suggested a prodigious workload. He was surrounded by papers and books in untidy piles, and was engaged in filling more sheets at a steady pace. He stood when Francis entered the room and put out his hand, apparently overjoyed to be called away from his work.

  ‘Mr Glass! I am delighted to meet you. I have been told of your heroism. Are you recovered as yet, sir?’

  Francis offered his hand and the Reverend took it, though he rather cradled it than shook it. He frowned over the healing wounds. ‘Not quite, not quite! What can I do for you? When may we receive dear Mrs Smith’s body for burial?’

  He was warm, genial. Francis could understand why Eliza had admired him.

  ‘I have brought you Mrs Smith’s will to examine, sir,’ he said. ‘You are named as an executor and Eliza left a bequest to your church. Her brother is away; I act for him in his absence.’ He passed the papers from the lawyer to Fischer, who sat sideways in his chair to read them, waving Francis to an armchair as he did so. The armchair was already occupied with a number of books – some left open with their spines cracking, Francis noticed with discomfort. He perched on its edge as well as he could while Fischer read. ‘As to the burial,’ he added, ‘I am afraid I cannot tell you when that will be. The inquest was adjourned, sir. Yesterday afternoon.’

  The Reverend looked up and made a sweeping gesture towards the piles of paper on his desk. ‘Adjourned? How so?’

  ‘Mrs Smith was murdered before the fire began, sir.’

  Fischer stared at him. ‘Good God.’

  Francis was afraid he had been clumsy. ‘Forgive me, I have thought of nothing else and I forget this is still grave news to her friends.’

  Dr Fischer’s face seemed to sag. ‘She had been a parishioner of mine for many years, Mr Glass. A better and more charitable woman never lived. Murdered? How cruel. Was there any sign of robbery?’

  ‘Her maid is missing, though there was some money left behind. We are making enquiries.’

  ‘Good, good. Oh, poor Mrs Smith. I fear her honour and her innocence were her undoing.’ He handed the will back to Francis. ‘As to the winding up of her estate, you must do whatever you think right, Mr Glass.’

  ‘I wish to sell the remaining stock as soon as I might – tomorrow, if possible. We have done what we can to protect what remains from the elements, but a thunderstorm would destroy all their worth.’

  ‘I thought the fire had destroyed everything.’

  Francis shifted his position slightly. The movement almost caused an avalanche of papers. He steadied the stacks with his hand.

  ‘The fire consumed the upper part of the building, but the floor of the first storey held. The majority of Mrs Smith’s stock was held on the ground floor. Much has been damaged by water and smoke, but there will still be a market for what is whole if the items are not damaged any further. My hope is that one of the wholesale traders by London Bridge might take a gamble and buy the whole stock. Her private papers, those that survived, jewellery and so on, I have removed to Mr Hinckley’s shop to wait for her brother there, but most of her possessions were destroyed, being as they were kept in the upper rooms.’

  ‘She has been most generous to the church,’ Fischer said. ‘You think there will be money enough to cover the bequest?’

  ‘Her bankers must be visited, naturally. But judging from her account books, and after the sale, I imagine that not only can the bequests be covered, but she will leave a generous sum to her brother’s family.’

  Fischer stood. ‘You are much pressed,’ he said. ‘I shall delay you no longer with my questions. My thanks, Mr Glass.’

  Francis stood also, carefully nudging the books behind him into more stable piles. ‘Would you like to speak to her bankers yourself, Dr Fischer? As executor of the will …’

  Fischer cut him off with a sad smile. ‘No, no. I place the same confidence in you as do the rest of the family, Mr Glass.’ He paused. ‘You are certain she died before the fire?’

  ‘I am. And the surgeon called in by the jury confirms it.’ Francis paused in turn. ‘Dr Fischer, you knew Mrs Smith well, I think?’

  ‘Indeed. We were good friends, I hope. Good enough friends for me to know she thought very highly of you, Mr Glass.’

  ‘May I ask you then, sir, did she confide any trouble to you? I cannot think of anyone who might wish to do her harm and her apprentice, Joshua, is convinced we suspect Penny unjustly.’

  Dr Fischer appeared to consider. ‘No, no. She said nothing to me, and as you said, she was a good woman. A very good woman. Joshua’s faith is touching, but …’ He lifted his palms and shrugged sadly.

  There was little else left to say. They made their farewells with careful politeness on both sides and Francis left the man to his piles of papers. Having walked halfway down the street, however, he found himself growing irritated. He had much to do and worry over, yet Fischer had made no offer or effort to take any part of the burden from him. His church was due to receive a good sum of money, yet he shuffled the entire work of dealing with the estate over to Francis. He stopped in the street and thought. Then he turned back. He would simply, and with the greatest courtesy, tell Dr Fischer he had enough to do organising the sale of the stock, and ask him to undertake the necessary visit to her bankers. No doubt they would much prefer to deal with Fischer than with an African barely mentioned on the official documents. It would take but an hour of Fischer’s time.

  Rehearsing his speech, Francis began to walk back along the road, but was surprised to see as he approached the house the Reverend himself leaving it, marching along the pavement with every appearance of great haste. Francis cursed him and himself. It was bad enough to force all the work on him, but then
not even to stay at his desk afterwards! He followed the Reverend at a steady pace, meaning to catch him up and make his speech on the pavement if necessary. Dr Fischer was not going far, however. Before Francis had quite managed to close the distance between them, Fischer turned in off the street – straight into the Jamaica Coffee House. Francis stopped. There were not many places in London he disliked more, and a civilised conversation with Dr Fischer there would be impossible. The idea of an African trying to teach a white Reverend his business and responsibilities on those premises … He would be thrown out bodily at best and he did not wish to be humiliated.

  The boy sweeping the street next to him was following the direction of his eyes and seemed happy to take the chance of conversation.

  ‘You don’t want to go in there, Pompey,’ he said with deep emphasis.

  ‘I know,’ Francis said, still so intent on watching the door, he hardly noticed the ‘Pompey’. He told himself he was a British man now. A man of responsibilities. If they assaulted him, he would prosecute. Though half the magistrates in the city were planters or bankers whose wealth had been born and swelled in the West Indies. He would be mocked.

  ‘Honestly, fella. Don’t do it!’ The sweeper sounded alarmed. Francis stared at him – an undernourished and grubby-looking boy just reaching his teens, he guessed.

  ‘Rest easy, I will not. Do you work here every day?’

  ‘I do. Anything goes on here, I see it. What do you want to know?’

  ‘Does Reverend Fischer go to that place often?’

  The boy nodded happily. ‘Course he does! He worked the slave trade for years before he got religious and started writing his hymns, so he comes here to chat over the good old days with his pals. Surgeon on one of the boats, he was. Have you never noticed how his preaching is full of “on the night of the hurricane”, and “as the great seas swelled below me” …?’

  Francis frowned. ‘I do not go to his church.’

  ‘You should! Good preaching, but not so heavy on the hellfire as the Methodists. And he gets the crowds in now. Yup, he’s an up and coming.’

  The boy leaned on the handle of his broom while he spoke, a weary and wise observer of the world before he had even reached fourteen. Francis was feeling for a shilling to give to the lad when the Reverend Fischer re-emerged onto the street, in the company of another man. ‘Watch out, cock,’ the boy hissed. ‘Step back if you don’t want to be seen gawking.’

  Francis found he did not and retreated into the shadow of a neighbouring building. ‘All clear,’ the boy said a minute or two later.

  Francis handed him his shilling with his thanks and the boy looked very pleased with the exchange.

  ‘Who was he talking to?’ Francis asked.

  ‘Sir Charles Jennings. Lovely gentleman. Civil to everyone and a big tipper. If the world were full of men like him it’d be cake every day for us all.’ The boy scratched his nose.

  ‘Did you hear what was said?’

  ‘Do I look like a rabbit to you, with ears to hear that far off? Dr Fischer looked sad and Sir Charles put a hand on his arm, as if he were comforting him. Then they both went their ways.’

  ‘Sir Charles Jennings?’ Francis tasted something bitter in his mouth. The clerk from Humphrey’s had left a pamphlet by Sir Charles on his counter last year and Francis had picked it up before Cutter could throw it on the fire. The tone was one of sorry sympathy, of reason and forgiveness. It pointed out that though slavery could be abused, it was a far gentler state than that which the African enjoyed in his own country. Slavery was a mercy. He should not have read past the first line, but he had been unable to resist that soft reasonable tone. He read the recommendations on how to better care for the slaves on their journey between Africa and the West Indies. Regulation, moderation and Christian instruction for the captured savages. He had wondered what Sir Charles Jennings looked like. Now he knew. The man was as smooth and polished as his prose.

  IV.3

  WHEN HARRIET LEFT THE Christophers’ house she told David to walk the horses in the Square for a while and found her own way to Canford’s grocery shop on Carlisle Street. The business of the day was in hand. The shopkeepers had set out their goods on trays in front of their windows and chalked up the prices. Maids scrubbed at the stone steps of the better houses, and the boot-menders had carried their tools and their chairs from the basements to work in the open air and enjoy what spring breezes managed to waft between the high houses. A boy no older than Jonathan was setting down a basket of spinning tops on the pavement and beginning to demonstrate the whipping of them to a little girl whose mother lingered too long at the fishmonger’s, and so her daughter was hooked.

  Harriet crossed the road as coin and top were exchanged and approached the boy. She asked him if he had been selling here the previous Thursday. As she spoke, he began to whip up his top again: it was a strange-looking thing attached to a long string, and as he listened he jerked it upwards so it span on the palm of his hand. ‘You got little ones, my lady? Only fivepence to make them happy all afternoon.’

  ‘There was a young girl. A man stopped her on the street just there. The shopkeeper had to come out and speak to him. Did you see it?’ she said.

  ‘What, Miss Sally? The black lass with a pa who looks like he could pull your head off with two fingers?’ Harriet nodded. The boy span his top again. ‘Well, I was here, right enough, but my recollection gets a bit cloudy when I haven’t had any breakfast. How many little ones you got? Three for tenpence, then I won’t get cloudy with worry as for how I’m to eat.’

  Harriet sighed. ‘You will get enough for your breakfast. Did you see anything?’

  He pursed his lips. ‘There was a mangy old fella grabbing on her arm. And there might have been another bloke standing here and watching. Here, look at this.’ He whipped the cord again and sprang the top up so it landed on his shoulder.

  Harriet fished for a shilling in her bag. ‘I’ll take four.’ The boy made a grab for the coin but she lifted it out of his reach.

  ‘Own hair, darkish coat,’ he said. ‘Came out the wine merchant’s two doors down.’

  The shop was empty when she entered. It was a dark room which smelled deeply of coffee and spice. Harriet paused for a moment as her eyes adjusted to the gloom and pretended to admire the displays of various snuffs and tobaccos in small polished barrels, the selection of coffees and teas. There were a number of sets of scales on the counter and behind it a great variety of dull green bottles. It was obviously an establishment of some standing; every surface glowed with a sort of superior ease. The shopkeeper emerged and made her a deep bow. He was a short, broadish man of considerable personal dignity. A shilling would not be enough. Harriet decided to aim high and placed a half-sovereign on the shining counter. It made a satisfyingly heavy click.

  ‘Thursday morning. You had a customer. A gentleman in a darkish coat who wore his own hair. I should like very much to know his name.’

  The shopkeeper hardly moved his mouth when he spoke. ‘We have many customers, naturally. But we prefer gentlemen to keep an account.’ Very smoothly, he pushed a large leather-bound volume towards her. ‘If you’ll excuse me, there is something I must attend to, briefly, to the rear of the building.’ He bowed again and turned away. The fat gold coin had somehow disappeared.

  Harriet turned the pages back to Thursday. It was the first entry on the list. Dr Drax. For delivery to Portman Square. One dozen Port Wine 1776 vintage.

  She nodded to herself and left the shop, the brass bell above the door ringing as it closed behind her like dignified applause.

  Francis was in thoughtful mood when he returned to Hinckley’s, but the necessities of the day pushed Fischer and the Jamaica Coffee House from his mind. He scribbled down a few words then went upstairs to the lair of Mr Ferguson. A handbill needed printing for the sale, to take place at the Chapter Coffee House at 4 p.m. Viewing allowed at Mrs Smith’s establishment between noon and 3 p.m.

  Ferguson made his re
commendations; a mention of the religious prints available was added.

  ‘How many do you want?’ he asked, once he had made his neat pencil notes on Francis’s scrawl.

  ‘Say a hundred, that should be more than enough. I want Joshua to take them down Paternoster Row, then along to London Bridge.’ Ferguson nodded and set to work without complaint. Francis had reached the head of the stairs before he turned back.

  ‘What if we added a line, asking for information into her killing? Say, “Any persons who have knowledge of the unlawful killing of Mrs Smith or the whereabouts of her maid, Penny, should apply to Francis Glass at Hinckley’s Booksellers, Ivy Yard. All useful information rewarded”.’

  ‘I think we can fit that into the page. Particularly if we squeeze up a little on the sale details.’ Ferguson sniffed. ‘Add “good” – “killing of good Mrs Smith”, and after your name say “or his clerk Cutter”. That way, they’ll leave their names and thoughts if you’re out.’

  ‘Just as you say. Thank you, Mr Ferguson.’

  When Harriet returned to Berkeley Square she found Crowther sitting upright on the sofa, wrapped in a long linen dressing gown and supported by a great many pillows. His jaw was much inflamed and his skin was pale. There were grazes on his forehead. Someone had provided him with paper and ink.

  She sat in the armchair opposite him and took off her hat, a little careless with the arrangement of her hair, and told him the sum of her adventures that morning.

  ‘I think I shall pay a visit to Dr Drax this afternoon and ask who he told about what he saw,’ she said as she finished, and pulled at one of her red ringlets. She stood up again and tried to see what Crowther had been writing. ‘They are a violent group of men, I think. Mrs Trimnell had bruising on her wrists yesterday. I think someone has struck her.’

  He moved the papers so she could not see them.