He held it up and Harriet saw the pink slice of the infected wound across his fingers. The idea that it was Creech’s blood she had smeared on her skin from the mask was repulsive.
‘He brought you the mask too?’
‘He did,’ Bounder said quickly while Creech poked at his wound.
Crowther pulled the last details from them. Bounder had silenced Trimnell with the blows to the belly, while Creech held him then fitted the mask. The darkness in the room seemed to thicken when Bounder told them that Trimnell had been forced to climb over the churchyard railings himself, the mask already on. Harriet wondered what he had been thinking: whether he had expected to survive; whether he had seen his suffering as an offering to God with the great white Cathedral looking down on them? The whip they had kept and sold to a cab driver the following day. Bounder admitted that he had struck the blow while Trimnell was still standing.
‘My blood was up,’ he explained with a shrug. ‘I almost caught Creech here with the tail of it as he was still fitting the loops of rope to the rat’s wrists. My apologies for that, Mr Creech.’
‘Apology accepted, Mr Bounder.’
‘Rat?’ Harriet repeated, a slight break in her voice. ‘Why do you call him a rat?’
Bounder sniffed and raised his eyebrows. ‘I heard him at the Jamaica, didn’t I? We may be down on our luck at the moment, but we are Englishmen enough to see he needed a lesson. Then he falls to the ground, and we starts the pegging out.’
‘But Mr Trimnell is loose,’ Creech added helpfully.
‘So he is. I try and shake him, but he flops right back down. At which point I thought it wise to absent ourselves.’
‘So we absented,’ Creech said. ‘And didn’t get our guinea. Bounder, is there no more to eat?’
‘No,’ Bounder said, and Creech began to pick his teeth but protested no further.
‘Molloy, can you keep them here till morning?’ Crowther said. ‘We will collect them on the way to the Magistrate.’
Bounder looked suspicious. ‘We ain’t done with the talking yet?’
‘No,’ Crowther replied, looking down on him with distaste. ‘You’ll have to swear to what you’ve just said in front of the authorities. Remember to stay friendly with me, Bounder. What I say in court will save you or hang you.’
‘For you I’ll keep an eye on them,’ Molloy said. ‘Though I doubt they’ve wit or will to run.’
‘Thank you, Molloy, and good evening.’
The two men touched their hats to each other and Crowther offered Harriet his arm. Bounder still made no move to shift from where Molloy’s punch had landed him, while Creech hopefully licked the spoon one last time.
VI.6
WHEN EUSTACHE ARRIVED HOME he went straight to the rooms set aside for the children on the upper storeys of the house, into his own chamber, and let himself cry. He had not realised that he loved Graves until Dr Fischer had threatened him. The nursemaid knocked on the door and told him supper was ready in the nursery, then she went back to the servants hall and reported to her fellows there that a few days’ proper work had left Master Eustache exhausted.
Upstairs, Jonathan and Stephen and Susan bickered happily among themselves as they ate, and as usual Eustache paid them no attention, other than looking up from time to time and hating them. Stephen, with his hero father and his exciting mother who obviously loved him more than such an ordinary noisy boy deserved. Susan, always so pleased with herself for being the eldest and complaining about their wealth. And Jonathan. Biddable and kind, always happy to give you whatever he had, if you said you wanted it. Everyone thought he was wonderful.
Eustache had very little appetite. He sat as long as he could, then when Jonathan was laughing so hard at something Stephen had said it looked as if he would fall from his place, Eustache could bear it no longer. He pushed back his chair and slammed his way back to his own room and sat on his bed, his knees drawn up to his chest. The manuscript lay in front of him, and already it seemed as if it was on fire. He felt a misery deeper than any he had ever known. All those names. All those lives stolen, then destroyed: all details carefully noted and dated in neat cramped handwriting, and he was going to give it to Fischer to burn. He knew he could do nothing else because he did not want Graves to hate him. He had felt alone his entire life, but he knew there was worse in front of him – and in front of the others – if he did not do what the man ordered. Eustache traced his hands over the writing on the page in front of him. It was wrong. They would take it away and burn it, and all those names would be lost. People like that fraud Fischer whom everyone liked so very much would carry on lying. It was wrong that all those people had died and no one would remember them, or ask after them. The pages under his hand were the one thread of words which stated they had existed and suffered in the world. It mattered. He thought about what Mr Glass had said about making decisions.
Eustache went into the nursery and without looking at the others opened the bureau drawer and pulled out a stack of paper. Then he picked up the ink-well and pen, and stormed back into his own room. There, he laid the paper and manuscript out on the floor and began to write.
A few minutes later there was a knock at the door, and without waiting for him to answer, Susan came in. She had a slice of lemon cake on a plate with her.
‘Here, Eustache. Mrs Martin’s been baking – you missed cake.’
He looked up, surprised. It was usually Jonathan who brought him things when he was in a foul temper. Susan was normally too busy making the servants laugh or playing the harpsichord and being told by everyone how clever she was. Her expression changed and he realised he had been crying again and rubbed at his face with his sleeve.
‘What’s the matter?’ she asked. ‘Is it as horrid as that, working in Hinckley’s?’
He shook his head and took the cake from her.
‘What is it then?’ She seemed so comfortable, settling on the floor beside him and kicking off her shoes, even though she got into trouble for ruining them like that. ‘Do tell, Eustache. What are you doing anyway?’ She picked up one of the sheets and he snatched it away from her. ‘Are you writing a book? Can I be in it?’
‘I am not writing a book. Just go away, Susan.’ He was only halfway down the first page. Should he copy it all out? Or just pick the worst parts? He was surprised by how hurt she looked, and surprised again when she didn’t leave but just took a deep breath and stayed where she was.
‘I might be able to help. I’m good at stories, everyone says so. My mother used to make up stories for us before we went to sleep. That’s what Graves says anyway, I was too young to remember.’
‘You’re always talking about your mother!’ Eustache said, suddenly enraged. ‘I hate your mother! Everyone is always saying how good she was and how kind; even when you get scolded, everyone always says, “Susan, be more like your mother”. No one ever says that to me, but I can see them thinking. I can see them wondering if I’m going to be a murderer like her. No one tells me stories about my mother. You all want rid of me. And now I have to give this away to be burned and they are all murderers too, much worse than my mother was, and everyone here will still hate me anyway, even though I helped.’
‘I brought you cake,’ Susan said reasonably after a long pause. Then after a minute longer she gave Eustache her handkerchief. ‘Can you remember your mother?’
‘What, you mean before she ordered your father to be killed?’ It didn’t work, Susan just nodded and waited. Eustache blew his nose and said sulkily, ‘I think she was very beautiful. I sort of remember that. And I saw a picture of her in that book I stole. It has the story too, of how evil she was.’
Susan put her chin on her knee. ‘You should ask Harriet about her. She knew her. And you have us now, Eustache. We don’t hate you, you know. I don’t think it’s your fault I have to pretend to be an idiot and sew all the time. It’s not Graves’s fault, really either, I suppose.’ Eustache did not look at her, but he did not say anything cutting
to her either. ‘Now eat the cake, and tell me what has happened.’
He sat up and crossed his legs, then began very slowly. ‘Mr Glass at the shop said I could read the manuscripts in his office, and I found this one near the top of one of the piles …’
After listening to him for a minute, Susan got up and went to fetch Jonathan and Stephen and more cake. She sat them down, threatening terrible punishment if they interrupted, and made Eustache start all over from the beginning again.
It was agreed that the manuscript would have to be given to Dr Fischer in the morning. The idea of making Graves hate them ran like ice through each of them. Stephen had some more suggestions as to how they could take revenge on Fischer, but Susan supported Eustache’s plan without hesitation. The important thing was to save the names that were written in the manuscript. Save the stories.
‘But then what will you do with them, Eustache?’ Jonathan asked.
‘I don’t know. But it is important. If we don’t do this then they’ll just disappear, and it feels wrong. It feels wrong in my stomach, and if you can’t see that, then you’re just being stupid.’ Susan kicked him. He thought about kicking her back, but caught the look in her eye and changed his mind. ‘Will you help me?’
Jonathan glanced at Stephen, who was lying on the hearthrug pushing the pile back and forward. ‘It’s like a special secret mission,’ he said with considerable emphasis.
Jonathan nodded and pushed his hands into his pockets. ‘When I’m twenty-five, Graves won’t need to look after us any more. Then we can get it printed and you can tell everyone about it.’ Eustache looked away comforted and hopeful for the first time. ‘But first we’re going to need lots of paper.’
VI.7
AT ONE POINT IN the night, Francis thought that Penny had woken. He put down his book and carried his lamp over to her so the light fell on her face, but her eyes remained closed. She was murmuring to herself in her sleep though – half-words and phrases he could not quite hear. He crouched beside her, thinking that if he waited he would make sense of it and the knowledge he wanted would shake itself free in the darkness. After a few minutes he realised he could understand the words, but they were not what he wished to know. Penny was dreaming of her life before she was taken in by Eliza. Obscenities slipped out from between her pale pink lips, negotiations and curses. They seemed to fall from her mouth and crawl into the dark corners of the room, laughing at him, toads in the shadows.
Harriet came back from the city feeling dirty to her bones. William told her that Graves would like a moment with her before she retired, and so she went to find him, in his office as usual. He asked after her progress, and when she was a little vague about when she had last eaten, he rang the bell to let the cook know that an opportunity for feeding Mrs Westerman was at hand.
‘What will be the charge against Sawbridge?’ he asked.
‘I do not know,’ she said. ‘Conspiracy, I would imagine. Murder for Bounder and Creech, but that will become manslaughter on Crowther’s evidence and they’ll be given a fine. Crowther has gone back to his own house. He claims he has had enough of our fussing.’
As soon as the food was brought to her, she realised how hungry she was. There was a ragout of veal, rich and heavy, with white fritters. Then she thought of Creech bent over his pot and her appetite slackened. She pushed the plate away after a little while and Graves rang the bell. When they were alone again he asked her if she had spoken to Susan that day.
Harriet shook her head and Graves frowned. ‘This evening after they had had their supper in the nursery, she came down and offered me a complete apology for her behaviour at Miss Eliot’s, and thanked me, on her behalf and on Jonathan’s, for all I have done for them since their father was killed.’
‘Good Lord!’ Harriet exclaimed. ‘You thought it was due to my influence?’
He laughed. ‘I admit I did not know what to think.’
‘I had said nothing, Graves. Not since I made such a mess of things on Sunday.’
He looked down at the papers on his desk, but without seeing them. ‘I believe you, Harriet. She also asked me if I loved Eustache.’
‘And do you?’
He swallowed. ‘I said I did, but I do not know, Harriet. I see their parents in Susan and Jonathan, and love them for it. When I see Eustache, I think of his parents too, and it makes me afraid of him. That is not fair and it is not kind.’ He ran his hands through his hair. ‘It is appalling of Susan to offer me her thanks, then make me feel like an inhuman monster in the next moment – but I do wonder what sort of man Eustache will become.’
Harriet considered carefully. ‘To some degree we each have a choice.’
‘Susan asked me if there is a portrait of Eustache’s mother at Thornleigh Hall. I had to tell her there is not: the one painted by Gainsborough when she married was destroyed in the fire.’
Harriet was thinking of Tobias Christopher and his family, of Molloy, of Crowther and their various histories. ‘I can speak to Eustache about his mother, Graves. I was frightened of her, you know, long before I found out quite what she was capable of, but she was a clever woman. These things should be spoken of; we avoid them because they make us uncomfortable,’ the image of the mouthless mask was before her, ‘but we pay a great price for avoiding the truth in the end.’
He still looked concerned, but nodded. ‘Susan’s reformation, however, remains a mystery.’
‘I’m afraid it does. Have the children gone to bed?’
He smiled. ‘Long ago, Harriet, and like lambs – and you should do the same.’
She stifled a yawn. ‘I must first write to Mr Palmer and Mr Christopher and tell them what we are about. Crowther suggests Mr Christopher accompanies myself and Bounder and Creech to the magistrates, while he keeps a watch on Mr Sawbridge until I receive a warrant for his arrest. Then let justice and the newspapers make of it what they will. I shall be free again.’
PART VII
VII.1
Friday, 13 May 1785
MOLLOY HANDED OVER HIS charges to them a little after seven o’clock in the morning. If Bounder and Creech had thought of making a run for their liberty, the seriousness of Mr Christopher’s presence was enough to make them think again. They got into the carriage like lambs and Molloy tipped his hat to them before making his way off into the crooked streets of the capital.
The Quaker magistrate who was taking his turn that morning peered at them meaningfully over his glasses when they arrived. The hall was still being swept and the clerk was only just unpacking his inkwell. Once he had their names and they had stated their business, he sighed.
‘Very well. I had hopes that this business would pass me by, probably for the same reasons that you have come and sought me out at this terrible hour.’ The high doors opened and shut behind them – a constable with a pair of young women looking frowsty and bad-tempered after spending half the night in the watch-house.
He explained to Bounder and Creech, with great patience, what indulgence their cooperation might secure, and then with his clerk making careful notes beside him, he coaxed an account out of them of Mr Sawbridge and the taking of Mr Trimnell.
‘I suppose we require a warrant for Mr Sawbridge’s arrest.’
‘Yes, sir,’ said Harriet meekly.
He looked heavenwards. ‘No need to play the wide-eyed innocent with me, Mrs Westerman. I am glad to meet you, though I am sure my fellow Aldermen will find a way to blame all of this farrago on me. I am grateful the black called Guadeloupe is gone from our custody already, rather than obliging me to release him and issue a warrant for a planter at the same moment.’ There was an interesting mix of regret and satisfaction in his voice. ‘Why we style women the gentler sex, I do not know.’
Creech had been following proceedings with a lively interest, though Harriet could not say how much he understood. This last made him beam more widely than Harriet thought his narrow face could have accommodated. ‘Sawbridge would never have thought of staking him
out without her.’
VII.2
CROWTHER ARRIVED AT THE Jamaica Coffee House a little before eight in the morning. The shutters were down and the door bolted. He dismissed the chair that had brought him and made himself comfortable leaning against a wall on the opposite side of the alley. He had only turned a few pages of his book, however, when the door sprang open and a girl in a maid’s uniform staggered out and vomited into the gutter.
Crowther closed his book. Within less than a minute, Mr Sanden too stumbled into the street, only half-dressed. ‘Murder,’ he croaked. ‘Murder!’ He made a dash in the direction of Cornhill without seeing Crowther. He put his book away, crossed the alley and went in through the open door.
It appeared that the maid had found Sawbridge as she came to bring him his hot water. His rooms were on the first floor, and the door to his parlour was still ajar. Crowther stepped over the fallen water kettle, pushing the door wide with the head of his cane. Blood. A great spraying arc of it across the wall facing him as he entered the room. There was a high-backed armchair in front of the grate with its back to him. A man’s arms were visible, hanging down either side. To the right-hand side, as if half-flung, half-fallen, was a razor, open and bloody. Crowther walked across the bare boards, and, keeping clear of the blood, looked at the man in the chair.
The head hung down and the front of the body’s waistcoat was solid with blood. He lifted the head slightly. It was Sawbridge, certainly, and his carotid artery had been cut through. The blow had been fierce enough to slit his windpipe. Crowther tried to think if there was any way that Sawbridge could have known the authorities were coming for him, but could not imagine one.
He straightened his back and examined the spray of blood across the wall. He could still hear the maid crying downstairs, but the room itself seemed very quiet.
Creech seemed at first unsure why everyone was staring at him.
Theft of Life Page 29
